It might seem like a simple thing, getting back to normal life after a temporary event, but it never really is. It's like, even in the short course of two weeks of doing something different, that different, no matter how alien it felt, becomes the new norm. Today was the first day I was allowed to leave my prison of a home to return to normal life having evaded the 'rona. It started off much the same. Wake up, get ready, and go to work. Just as I started to get aggravated at the Boomer driver ahead of me doing 35 in the fast lane of Cache Road, I realized, I kind of missed that about my day. The little insignificant irks that we use to judge how good a day is after the fact. Suddenly, this slow-loris of a driver was endearing for a moment. Then I found enough space to zip around her going back to my typical inner-conversation of "If you can't drive right, you shouldn't drive period." I'm sure it's human, you probably do it to.

Making it to work for the first time in two weeks wasn't as weird as I figured it would be. After all, everything else old was feeling new, but the downtown studios are a welcome second home. Prior to the pandemic, I spent more time here than anywhere else. I'm sure at least one coworker is reading this, rolling their eyes, but it's the truth. They just aren't around on nights, weekends, and holidays to see it, so it doesn't exist. Perception is thought of as reality after all. Seeing familiar faces is nice after isolation, but the real good feels come when you hear another voice speaking back to you. The conversation is an absolute pillar of humankind. I was so starved for it, I spent hours trying to antagonize my butthead neighbor into an argument, but he wouldn't bite. It's probably a good thing.

As soon as I sat down at my familiar studio console I realized, there's no time for this, get to work. I did. It ruled. Now it's over. Now to head back home, not to a prison, but once again a fortress of welcome solitude.

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