Recently, I combined my light clothes with my dark clothes in the washing machine—an unthinkable act in my prior life. As the washer churned and my whites got dingier, I realized my universe had shifted. For good or bad, my pandemic life bears little resemblance to my pre-pandemic life.

My appearance has become more feral. I used to get my eyebrows threaded by an Indian woman at a local mall; the same mall that went under last month. I lack the manual dexterity to tweeze, so now a shelf of brow luxuriates above my face mask.

South of the zoom screen where fashion doesn’t matter, I rotate between two sets of sweatpants:  old and baggy (my favorite) and new slimming sweatpants from COSTCO. I wear them to impress others, usually on the rare occasions when I am taking a socially distanced walk with another masked human being.

I used to cook meals comprised of nutritious food that varied in color and texture. The other day at Harris Teeter, I filled my cart with mac and cheese:  White Cheddar, Aged Cheddar, Four Cheeses and Organic. The orange cheese powder gives me pause because it looks radioactive. In the past, I’d viewed packaged mac and cheese as the food choice of a person who had given up on life. Now, I see it as a reasonable food choice of a person who barely can muster the emotional energy to boil water.

Because I no longer have a regular work schedule, I stay up late into the night. It’s not so much I have insomnia; it’s more my days and nights have merged. My landmarks have disappeared: the improv show I was supposed to perform in, the writing workshop I was supposed to facilitate, the Thanksgiving dinner I was supposed to share with family and friends.

Inspired by one of my sons, I’ve started birdwatching, an activity that brings me outside for hours at a time. Fortunately, I live next to a large nature preserve and am surrounded by birds. Unfortunately, although I hear them taunting me from the treetops, I can’t spot the birds because I haven’t mastered my new binoculars. When I look through them, I see a strap or the edge of my lens cap, but no birds in trees. However, with my naked eye, I can always spot turkey vultures–all I have to do is look up to see those buzzards make low, slow circles above me. I’m always tempted to shout that Monty Python line, “I’M NOT DEAD YET!”

When the pandemic started last winter, I assumed that once the mess was over, I’d glide back into my old life. Now, I’m not so sure.

Albert Einstein said that the measure of intelligence is the ability to change. Maybe I should smarten up and make some of these pandemic changes permanent. Maybe it’s not so bad that I don’t have my eyebrows threaded anymore. The process hurt and the technician often made rude, but accurate comments like, “Your face has wrinkles.”

Maybe I’ll keep wearing comfy sweatpants—no more squishing myself into skinny jeans. I’ve begun to regard those radioactive cheese powder lunches as comfort food. Sometimes, I splurge and sprinkle Panko breadcrumbs on the orange glop.

I do miss improv and teaching and earning money and seeing other humans. However, I don’t miss the busyness. In my former life, I rushed from one activity to the next. Now, I will take time to commune with those circling turkey vultures. And, thanks to Mr. Einstein, I won’t view the buzzards as harbingers of imminent doom, but instead as attentive avian companions on my journey through a re-imagined post-pandemic life.