In the spring of 1990, I was a college senior working at a donut shop in the small town of Laramie, WY. Moving there from Baton Rouge, LA where I grew up was a bit of a culture shock; but at Daylight Donuts, I found a family of sorts. Regular customers came in each day like clockwork. They ordered the same thing every time, and I had every donut and coffee – including their cream and sugar amounts – committed to memory.

I had big plans to kick off the holiday season of 2004. I would spend Thanksgiving alone at home, with True Crime TV reruns and a frozen turkey dinner.

As I type this, my husband and I are making big plans for the week ahead. Our dog, Bear, is turning 14. That’s 98 in human years.

Before you answer the title question with a pithy, “I am not a candy,” read on.

Thanks to Facebook, I have reconnected with friends I have known since grade school. I know what is happening in their lives, and they know the latest details about mine. I know where some of them stand on politics and current events, for better or worse. We message. We joke. We comment on each other’s posts. We just don’t see each other very often. Most of my oldest and dearest live in Louisiana, which makes getting together in person tricky … and expensive.

Just one month ago, I was suffering a bit of anxiety about my pending summer vacation. While deciding what to pack for a trip to Yellowstone National Park, I stumbled across a few suggested packing lists on the internet. Not terribly exciting as far as packing lists go, until I got to “bear spray.” That one item showed up on every list I found. I grew terrified that I needed to pack this item because it wasn’t a matter of “if” but when I would encounter a bear in the park.

I am going on my first summer vacation in years. I don’t mean since the pandemic started – I haven’t slipped sunscreen and flip-flops into my carry-on in nearly a decade.

I have always had a soft spot for lifeguards. It probably traces all the way back to my very first summer when my mother, a lifeguard at the time, taught me how to swim.

As I lay on my couch in a sinus infection stupor, my husband blasted through the back door, shouting, “Call the police! Lucy is missing!”

I type this as a wave of dread washes over me.

Each of my neighbors within a five-house radius has a key to my house. I did not give any of them a key.

If February 16th rolls around and someone randomly does something nice for you, the news may not be all good.