Seven Dog Years In.

It's been a year now, a year since I started working from home for two weeks. 

You could say it's been roller coaster, but as my astute bride pointed out, even a roller coaster is supposed to stay on the track. To her point, the whole thing has seemed a little like hurling down that ancient, wooden thrill ride at the fair. This time, though, you enter the bottom turn way too hot and the entire train catapults into the purple Puyallup evening, its passengers set on a perfect collision course with the baby pig trailer. 

Worse, you'd decided to wait until afterwards to get a corndog.

A year ago now, things were moving fast. Remember? The term "pandemic" was a real thing, yet its implications were completely unfathomable to most of us during the early times. They'd get a handle on it and we'd be working from home for six weeks, tops. Dr. Fauci? Hadn't heard of him, but the more he spoke, the more obvious it became that he was an essential information source. Given the virus' severity and the ongoing stonewalling by the administration, I was amazed and grateful he'd been allowed a forum. 

A year ago, did I cringe a little when thinking of hanging out in large, maskless groups of people, drinking fizzy drinks and glottally spritzing particulates with reckless abandon? Not at all. On the other hand, did I have any idea how much I'd miss hanging out in large, maskless groups of people, drinking fizzy drinks and glottally spritzing particulates with reckless abandon? Not at all. 

In fact, I have this frequently-recurring dream of being in a huge, sunny field, running into old friends, smiling, laughing and just feeling euphoric. Its meaning is hardly hidden; it even sounds like a dream a dog might have, but hey, there's no shame when it comes to our internal quest for connection, be it Spot's or Tim's.

In other developments, here are some areas where I've improved during the pandemic:

• Watching TV: As skilled as I'd previously considered myself, I've gotten even better at watching TV. In October, I reached the 10,000-hour mark with my Apple remote, thereby making me an expert with it. Also, we've acquired a blanket that feels like a hundred fake minks were clubbed just to make this one blanket. It's the closest I can imagine to being in the womb and I just grossed myself out there.

• Riding my bike: I try to do it every morning, but not before this happens:

Me #1: Finish your coffee. It's 7:15, the agreed-upon time.

Me #2: Don't tell me what to do. I'm reading an important article about pizza.

Me #1: Nothing about pizza is important. Let's go.

Me #2: Did you really just say that?

Ultimately, we agree that pizza is indeed important, but we don't get out the door until 7:27.

• Knowing all the streets of my neighborhood: I'm not alone, here. Since the lockdown's inception, people are out and about, mornish, noonish and nightish, switching up routes or just taking that "favorite" way. We're everywhere, allowing plenty of space as we pass each other and do a quick WFH (wave from here). Seriously, the walk/podcast tandem gets my Oscar vote for Outstanding Actor in a Daily COVID Routine.

We keep getting closer. Maybe you've even already received your first or second dose. Or you're still waiting. My family is split, with my wife (a teacher) one shot in and my older daughter (a nursing school employee) fully vaccinated and ready to go. My younger daughter and I aren't there yet, but it doesn't seem long now. 

Sometimes it feels like any progress toward ending this scourge has happened at a snail's pace. But let's step back for a second; people are getting vaccinated, and in increasing numbers to match the ever-growing supply of vaccine. The United States has now immunized more people than have been infected, and our elderly are safe, a remarkable turn of events considering the conditions inside long-term care facilities less than a year ago. 

It's happening, so please, take care of yourself. I can't wait to see you.