My first evening out on the town after my second Moderna shot was one of the best nights of my life. After a year of isolation, I was suddenly at a Jay Gatsby party: My then-boyfriend and I sat on the terrace at Lutie’s, an Austin restaurant in a restored 1920s mansion. The terrace overlooks a sprawling lawn strung with tiny white lights. We ran into my boyfriend’s friends, who sat with us, and my Texas Monthly editor and her husband, who abandoned their table to sit with us, too. Everyone at Lutie’s was having the same experience—exchanging hugs for the first time in a year, striking up conversations with other diners, getting drunk on nice wine. We had been caged and now we were free! It was totally exhilarating to do what humans are meant to do—socialize with other humans.
2020 was the third year I’d spent without a local friend group. In 2018 and 2019, I’d traveled too much to log the hours close friendships require (apparently, that number of hours is 200). Despite electronic communication with far-flung friends, loneliness became such a presence in my life, it assumed a physical shape. At times I could see the curvy blob of it, hovering beside me like something that would have fit into the old McDonald’s commercials with Brutus and the Hamburglar. In my dreams every night, I found myself surrounded by friends I hadn’t seen in years. I dreamt most frequently of times when community was a given—high school, early childhood, summer camp. (I’ll stop talking about my dreams now because I want you to like me.)
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