Did I have Covid? The at-home test said no but I doubt it.

I had been sick for two weeks and it’s safe to say depression set in – the kind where I stared off into space for hours with zero desire to even watch TV. A few times I was thisclose to taking my entire bottle of sleeping pills. Every day I’d wake up and count the hours until I could retire for the night.

Day 16 came and, though I was finally feeling better, I had a setback. My husband and I entertained friends a couple evenings prior but that day the pull of the couch brought me to another halt. Was it laziness now or continued mild depression, I wondered.

I looked out the window and knew to do what every article says to do when one is feeling low – go for a walk.

It was winter. In January. In Minnesota. But I had to do it.

It took everything I had (no exaggeration) but I slithered off the couch and dressed myself in winter gear (it is Minnesota, after all). I stepped outside and immediately took a deep breath.

I already felt better.

I was alone on the paved trail that runs behind my house to the park a few blocks away. I passed pine trees and houses, all familiar yet welcome sights. It was late in the afternoon and the gray sky blended into the snowy horizon. I started out listening to a podcast but quickly turned it off to soak in the serenity. I walked slow and returned with enough endorphins to have a productive evening.

It was only a mile, but that walk saved me an evening of brain fog and bad thoughts.

In fact, I think it quite literally saved me – period.

We all have comfort shows. The ones we can have on in the background while doing laundry. Episodes we know line for line yet still make us laugh or cry or bring us back to better days.

When I have tasks to do around the house with no one around to fight with for control over the remote I turn on an old ‘70s or ‘80s show – think Rockford Files, The Brady Bunch, a little Three’s Company.

Basically anything that reminds me of cozy nights at home when I was young and TV was king.

But for real nostalgia, I flip on Hart to Hart.

Yes, it’s Jonathan (Robert Wagner) of the navy-hued double-breasted suit jacket and sly sexy smile and Jennifer (the beautiful Stephanie Powers) of the big hair and sophisticated style.

Tuesdays at 9 p.m. CST on ABC, I believe. The show ran from 1979-1984, so I would have been in the fourth grade when it started.

Unlike some of my friends, there were no forbidden television shows in my house. My younger brother and I could watch them all, from Dukes of Hazzard to Dynasty to Dallas. Nothing was off-limits. Same goes for my Perfect Friend Julie (she of the gorgeous long, blonde, thick wavy hair that I coveted all through my elementary years). We’d discuss the show the next day at school and giggle when Jennifer scolded Jonathan for getting his foot too close to her in their (gasp!) shared bubble and champagne-infused bath.

To this day I love seeing the Harts’ old canary-yellow phone, their brick and stone décor and the leather stools perched at their living room bar. My parents didn’t even drink let alone have an area devoted to libations!

Ah, thank God there’s IMDb TV.

I may be living in the world of blogs, texts, and mean tweets, but gratefully I can always go back to the days of Rockford’s Firebird, Jan and her love of the fake George Glass, and Jack Tripper’s pursuit of Greedy Gretchen at the Regal Beagle.

Talking to a good friend the other day, she mentioned if this is her life, she’s OK with it.

She wasn’t depressed or thinking about ending her life, but like me, I’m good with where my life is at.

When I was young I always thought I’d die young. I was scared of death. Heck, I was scared I was adopted (though I looked exactly like my brother and mother) or that my parents would divorce (though I rarely witnessed a fight between them).

But my biggest fear was death. I remember wanting to make it to 50.

Then I had children, and all I could think of was their wellbeing and security. I wanted nothing more, I once told a friend, than to have them graduate from high school in one healthy, safe, happy piece.

And that wish will come to fruition, God willing, this coming May.

So where does that leave me?

After countless mistakes, regrets, and unfulfilled dreams, I am blessed to have my husband and kids, friends, extended family, and health. I’m financially comfortable with a cute house I get to live in and the jobs to pay for it and all that it contains.

But if it all ended today I would be happy. Happy that my family is old enough, bright enough, smart enough and strong enough to survive it without me.

I am no longer afraid to die.

True, there’s so much I still want to do (hold future grandkids in my arms) and see (the London haunts of some of my favorite writers as well as national parks of the west and southwest with my husband) and read (I have one helluva long TBR list of books).

Yet, do I deserve to see all of my desires through and to?

I think of all the unfulfilled dreams of millions (billions??) of people who have passed before me in the world. For some that could have meant a full belly, or to see their child grow up past the age of 3. For others it may have meant a singing career onstage in a big city, or to live a peaceful life after a horrible tragedy befell themselves or their family.

In the end, if I don’t tick off every last experience on my bucket list, I won’t be alone.

My plan is not to sit back and watch the world go by with a fatalistic attitude. There won’t be any skydiving or gambling all my money away or driving without a seatbelt while going 70 miles per hour down the freeway.

Rather, I consider this feeling of contentment a bonus.

I intend to use this second half, or thereabouts, of my life as a time to make amends, deepen some relationships before it’s too late, and encourage others to pursue their dreams and goals.

I want to spread any knowledge or life lessons that I’ve learned during my short time spinning around this beautiful, warm, life-giving sun.

One of my favorite days this holiday season was not Christmas itself but the Sunday after, as, after the weather had been unseasonably warm a few days prior, I had arranged with two of my close friends to walk a 5K at a local park.

The day, however, proved to be crisp, with temperatures in the low teens. I think each of us knew if one of us bailed we’d all gladly follow.

But we bundled up and proceeded.

As we walked along the paved path through the trees, careful not to slip on patches of ice, we talked of our Christmases, families, and jobs.

There was no judging and no need to preface a complaint about a family member with how much we love them before airing any grievances.

The park was quiet, save only for the sound of our voices and laughter. The Mississippi River would come into view as we wound our way around the paths, the ice chucks in it looking as frozen as our breath.

It was marvelous.

By the time it was over, we had spotted a deer, one of us took a pee near a tree, I was rewarded with a large blister on my heel, and another’s hip was severely acting up.

And, after taking several wrong turns, we discovered we turned the 5K into a whopping 10K.

After hobbling to our vehicles, we finished off the afternoon with a couple of cold beers and some hot fries smothered with bacon and cheese at a local bar.

Odd you may say, after completing a long and healthy walk, but we came to the conclusion that it was more of a mental 5K, something just as important as physical activity.

I hope it’s the beginning of a great tradition with these special friends of mine.

If you’re from anywhere near the Midwest, particularly Minnesota, you may have heard of our infamous long goodbyes upon leaving family or friend gatherings.

I won’t bore you with the details but basically everyone sits around, conversations long wilted or completely dried up. Guests wait to be physically picked up by the host and tossed out the door. However, escape doesn’t happen even then, as the host walks you to your car and starts yapping some more, even as you buckle your seatbelt and begin to back away.

But let me begin approximately an hour and a half prior.

I want to leave, from wherever we are. I begin by staring at the husband and boring holes through his skull, willing him to finally announce our departure.

I decide to take matters into my own hands. I start by standing up from the couch and heaving a big sigh. Then I grab my coat under a huge pile of other coats (lice, dog or cat hair, anyone?) and a few minutes later put it on.

Not being a hint enough to anyone, least of all the husband, I usually end up sitting back down and even at times taking my coat off. And so the cycle continues until one brave soul decides that they too will forage for their coat and attempt to make a break for it.

In dissecting this Midwestern phenomenon, I realized that every invitation I’ve ever received, whether formal or informal, states the time to be there. And you had better be there at that time. Other parts of the country have this thing called “fashionably late.” Uh-uh. Not here. When guests don’t show up on time we think they don’t like us and we begin to plot our next get-together and smugly not invite them. (By the way it’s always a get-together; party suggests the idea that we’re to have fun and that puts a LOT of pressure on both the hosts and the guests.)

Then it dawned on me. Though there always is a start time, an end time is rarely if ever mentioned.

For decades I’ve dealt with the elusive end-time to Christmas Eve’s spent with my husband’s family. Hours upon hours we’d stay, our young children falling asleep on the couch with gifts at home still to wrap and food to prepare for the next day.

Twenty years later and though my kids aren’t young anymore, recent years have found us still lolling around til the wee hours solely to not offend anyone by leaving.

Well, lo and behold, this year a Christmas miracle happened.

The in-laws, citing oldness and tiredness as reasons, have no longer decided to host Christmas Eve.

In their stead, my husband’s niece has graciously offered to have the gathering at her house. And her invitation to the affair would alter a decades-old tradition:

Please join us for a Christmas gathering (NOT party! 😊) at our house from 2 p.m. – 6 p.m.

An end time? Did they want us gone by that time or walking out the door at that time? Or in our car at that time? Were they actually going to physically pick up each of us and toss us out the door at 6 p.m.??

Doesn’t matter.

In fact, it inspired me to send out a text sent out to my family regarding Christmas Day:

Please join us for Christmas Day from 2 p.m. – 6 p.m.

And not a moment later…

Volunteered at church today, as I’ve done at other churches we’ve been members of in the past.

Why does it seem that there is always some old lady named Mary Jo who is completely involved in all the goings-on of the place?

And she’s someone I do not know yet is always somehow familiar. it’s as if the long-ago parents of Mary Jo’s just know what to name their daughter and the destiny that will befall her.

I don’t want to cook.

I don’t want to clean.

I don’t want to shop.

I just want someone else to do everything for me.

My daughter left for an 8-hour shift at work and arrived home to find me in the same spot last weekend.

After all, some Fridays beg some Saturdays to call for an entire 12 hours of sitting on my ass and watching cheesy Lifetime movies.

There’s always that moment when I realize the day slipped me by and I have the choice to get up and accomplish something to make up for it or to succumb to the gravitational pull of the couch.

Last weekend I opted for the latter.

It’s an especially easy decision to make when the weather is getting cooler and daylight, which seems to prompt me into productiveness, gets fainter as every autumn day goes by.

Deciding to sit on my butt for an entire day doesn’t come without consequences, most of which I end up correlating to my feeling of negative self-worth. I’m a queen at rationalizing decisions which end up biting me in my big flabby ass.

That one last drink.

A donut from Kwik Trip instead of the $3 yogurt.

Scrolling through Facebook when I just did five minutes ago. (And how did my life improve in those five minutes anyway? Did I learn something new? And if so, was it positive or impactful to me in any form? I don’t think the answer is ever going to be yes.)

Telling myself tomorrow morning I’ll pull out my yoga mat instead of sleeping in.

Sitting down to write yet remembering that I have to put a load of laundry in or it won’t get done. (Newsflash – it always does. Always. Maybe not at that second, but I’ve never left my family to go commando.)

But Lifetime, in all its mother’s nightmares, daughter’s abductions, and cheerleading tryouts gone wrong won out over exercising, reading, writing, and generally anything with a hint of worthiness in it.

Oh, well, I guess there’s always next Saturday.

Me the next week after every wedding to which I’ve ever been since my 20’s:

I had so many deep and meaningful conversations that I just wish I could remember.

Nothing – not one single thing – tests my patience more than waiting for stoplights when I’m late for an appointment.

Not my husband’s demands nor my boss’s questions nor my children’s moods.

My toes are tapping and my fingers are drumming. I feel like I’m going to crawl up out of my body and shake my fists at the glaring red ball of light staring back at me.

Taunting me.

Trying me.

Nothing lasts this long.

Not payday, not my bone-in wings when I’m starving at the bar, not when my husband finally rolls over after I nudge him when he’s snoring.

I feel my skin prickling, tingling. I communicate with every limb in my body, willing it to stay loose, lithe, limber; instead of tense, taut, trim.

“If I had only left ten minutes earlier,” I say to myself.

My mantra.

Ten minutes earlier.