It struck me today, as I watched yet another news broadcast with horrible photos of the War in Ukraine, that, reeling from a long Covid-induced drunk, we’re bleary-eyed with the morning. As things have eased in recent weeks with shots and boosters and the immunization provided by the disease itself, we look back on a two-year long binge drunk. And we are hung over.
Numbers of us sobered up from time to time, many with Covid, some of whom died and are still dying—although in smaller numbers. The easy ones, the old drinkers with little resistance—those with age and asthma and other health issues working against them—went first, with the grieving of a relative looking in the nursing home window. A few loud-mouthed braggarts who thought they could drink forever, without masks and shots, went down.
We moderates minded our Ps and Qs, but are still shaking off the effects of the long-haul binge. We’re hungover, wondering whether we dare take a drink of fresh air, have a glass of wine in a restaurant or drink in a bar. Maybe a little taste—the hair of the dog.
Or, “ah, to hell with it. Give me a Bloody Mary and put that War-thing going on in Ukraine up on the screen.”
The next long drunk?
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