At present, I’m sitting in my chair watching a singer perform a version of Smooth Criminal I’ve never heard before. The show is some form of post-midnight rocking eve. A host has combined a sheerish orange corset with baggy jeans. She dances, awkwardly.

Annie, are you okay? Are you okay, Annie?

I don’t understand why any of these people have agreed to do the show.

I don’t understand why I’m watching it.

2022 is here. The pandemic is winding down. My daughter is graduating high school. The same daughter who was a baby on the first night I wrote on this blog.

Annie, are you okay? Are you okay, Annie?

I’m going to be 48 soon. Well, my body is. My brain is hovering somewhere between 27 and 72.

Last year I was absolutely worried about dying from COVID on New Year’s. Then six days later, people scaled DC wearing horns and face paint. I spent a solid week questioning everything I knew about reality.

This year, I’m back to thinking I should really clean the bottom drawer in the kitchen and buy some new white candles.

You’ve been hit by/

And so it goes, as I begin the first year of my life after raising a child. I know people have been doing this forever, but I still need a minute to sit with that.

You’ve been struck by/

A new year, indeed.

A smooth criminal.