1,000.

Today is one thousand days since March 11, 2020.

I checked a few days ago, double-checked yesterday, and looked it up again to be certain. A thousand days. One at a time, the same as every other day, and looking back with that precision, it feels like there should be something more. An official statement, an NPR comment. I recognize they're probably waiting until March 11, 2023, and even so. Something would be nice.

I did manage something I rarely do, and it felt so good to do it: I walked out of a situation I didn't want to be in. I went to a play with my parents, my younger brother and his wife, and two of my brother and his wife's friends. I liked the play without enjoying it - there wasn't anyone I really empathized with or could root for, so I watched it at a distance, appreciating the small acting choices without cheering anyone along. I'm happy I went, though afterwards, we were milling around on the sidewalk, clogging up space, saying they wanted to do things without making plans, and everyone was taking off their masks even though we were in a big crowd with lots of people talking and yelling.

Then I realized: I'm not here with anyone else. While I'd gone as part of a group, I was going back to my place alone.

I immediately wished my parents a good night and walked off. I left. I made the adult call and walked away, and it's raining outside and I'm by myself and I'm feeling pretty good about that.

I've spent too many hours of the last thousand days hanging around where I didn't want to be. There's no reason to keep up with that, not if I can help it.