I received my medical insurance card in the mail today.
In the mail at my home.
There had been some miscommunication with the new job because my last legal residential address was in North Carolina. (Somewhere in the Tarheel state, someone is getting my excellent health care.)
A home. My stuff. Medical care.
As the philosopher Col. "Hannibal" Smith used to say, "I love it when a plan comes together."
Now with medical care I feel like making poor decisions in order to use it. I'm thinking about calling medical centers (outside my coverage area) asking to make out with COVID patients.
Or perhaps I'll grease my shoe bottoms with bear fat and venture out on to the lake ice for the first time since my return.
Maybe, must maybe, I will run with scissors.
As I continue making progress in rebuilding a life, I feel a little adult-y.
That used to be a bad thing when I was young and stupid. (For the record, I am now old and stupid.)
But it wasn't too long ago where I would drive past nice homes and wonder what I had done wrong.
Perhaps it wasn't what I did wrong, instead the circumstances that befell me and how I dealt with it.
I'm going to be practically middle class. I'll have to buy a button-up sweater because I assure you, I do not have one in the many boxes I'm unpacking.
Peace and COVID kisses unto all of you my brothers and sisters.