Welcome readers, old and new, and Happy New Year!
Please hit the ❤️ above if you’re looking forward to the mellifluent tones of HNTFUYF Tuesday mornings in 2024.
I’ve been flying around the world for the past two years, clocking lots of time in airports and train stations and metros in Japan and the US and somehow (somehow = a perpetually worn KN95 mask) never caught Covid. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I treated myself to dinner in one of those outdoor sheds in a place right up the street, empty when I sat down and buzzing when I left, unfortunately having picked up an unfriendly little bug. Because I am at this point a walking antibody (vaxed to the max), the bug seems to have settled mostly in my nose and psyche: Work? What’s that? Does it mean I have to move off the couch?
But here I am, writing to you surrounded by crumpled tissues and a couple of scented candles to confirm I can still smell (in spite of the potential health risk). I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day isolating in my own little manger, which might’ve been lovely—but because I was under the weather, I felt pretty lonely instead. Thank God for FaceTime, where, in a heartening development, my granddaughter, M, offered to tell me a story.
“What kind of story do you want, Grammie?” she asked.
‘What kind?” I said. “You mean, like, about who?”
“I mean,” she said, “do you want a personal narrative or fiction?”
*“Wow.” I needed a minute. Then, “personal narrative?”
I tried to remember whether when I was in kindergarten, I knew what personal narrative was—or fiction for that matter. My most vivid memory is of the small pink rug I kept in my cubby and of my determination not to pee on it during nap time. (Now there’s a personal narrative worth repeating.)
Which brings me in my usual roundabout way to a reader question about “baby Botox.”
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