the ocean

Star Magazine (the official magazine of elliptical machines and dentists who hate their patients everywhere) runs a feature called “Normal/Not Normal,” which is without a doubt the most important piece of investigative journalism since Andrea Zuckerman went undercover for that cafeteria exposé on 90210.  I can think of no other publication with the sheer audacity and grit to educate America on the fact that Shonda Rimes pumping gas in sweatpants is Normal, while Lea Michele drinking the blood of infants is Not Normal.  But I can’t help but wonder, like Carrie Bradshaw but without all the adultery, what our nation’s foremost purveyor of unflattering photos of Meghan Markle would make of 2021.  We all wanted it to be Normal, as we threw caution to the wind and took off our masks to eat our Breakfast Baconators, but as our news feeds filled up videos of people screaming at medical professionals about horse paste and conspiracy theories about John-John coming back from the dead to endorse Trump and find out how Friends ended, there did seem to be plenty of Not Normal to go around.  It was almost as though all of human behavior couldn’t be divided neatly into categories to fill out a two-page photo spread adjacent to an ad for that miracle pharmaceutical that saved Brooke Shields from her disgusting eyelashes.

My own 2021 was certainly Not Normal, but I have no complaints.  (Well, not no complaints; you should hear me when the Grubhub driver forgets my side of ranch.)  After spending almost all of 2020 in quarantine, devising unnecessary home improvement projects and realizing that we hate television, we basically hopped on a plane with the vaccine needles still hanging from our arms.  First we rented an incredible house in Palm Springs, which the pandemic had happily cleansed of both aspiring Instagram influencers doing designer drugs with names that sound like Muppets and colorful locals who think you want to hear stories about what Big Crosby did there in 1934.  We lounged by the pool with friends, we tried a shocking variety of alcoholic seltzers, we realized we were never going to learn to credibly perform the Janet Jackson “If” dance.  Then in October we went to Portugal for our friends’ wedding, which was frankly so amazing that everyone else should probably just stop embarrassing themselves by trying to get married now since it has already been done to perfection.  I mean, there were fireworks.  Set to “Can You Feel the Love Tonight.”  (Question mark omitted by The Walt Disney Company, thank you very much.)  The rest of Portugal wasn’t too shabby, either, from the castle-dotted mountains of Sintra, which Ian almost fell off of, to the wineries of Porto, which I almost moved in to.  So yes, not the worst year I’ve had, even if my sad craft production rate has dropped precipitously from 2020 levels. 

And we’re hoping for a little bit of Normal in this holiday season, as well.  I’m looking forward to the slow return of holiday parties, even though attendance now requires that I provide my complete health history and a pint of blood along with that gift bottle of a robust Shiraz.  It will be nice to watch my niece and nephew open their presents, despite the breathtaking unfairness of them getting so many more Legos than I ever did (or do, to this day; injustice is evergreen).  And New Year’s will in some ways even be improved by the elimination of indiscriminate kissing and hugging of strangers.  (That’s more of a St. Patrick’s Day thing.)  So happy holidays, and here’s to the indescribably Normal 2022 that’s sure to follow, although obviously no one can hold me to that.