Hit Me With Your Best Two Shots

I’ve hit my two weeks post-vaccination mark, which is at once a significant milestone and enough of a meaningless moment as to make me wonder why I feel quite so accomplished to have made it this far.

After all, getting to this point really doesn’t mean anything beyond the fact that I… haven’t died in the last two weeks…? Which, sure, is not a thing that I’m not grateful for, considering the alternative, but at the same time, it was far from something that required any active movement on my part. I literally just kept going about my business, and ended up here nonetheless.

The hard part, the bit that required effort on my part — and even then, not that much effort, considering — came a fortnight ago, when I actually got my second shot. (Calling it an effort on my part feels more than a little self-serving, given that I just sat there and grimaced as the lab tech did everything, but still.) At the time, though, I felt as if any self-congratulating was premature; there was the possibility of side-effects and any other complications ahead, so I allowed myself a couple of minutes of gratitude and moved on to more important matters. What this really means, though, is that I haven’t really allowed myself to feel good about this whole vaccination experience.

Maybe that’s for the good. I mean, I’m not sure what it really means, on a practical level — I still wear a mask in public around other people, and to be honest, I don’t feel like that’s going to change anytime soon…? (Sorry, CDC guidelines; the combination of my anxiety and not wanting to make others nervous wins out, instead.)

I understand that I am, at least in theory, unlikely to contract COVID again, and that this means I’m more likely to be able to see people in person again, but beyond that vague promise, I’m left wondering quite why two weeks out feels like quite the thing that it somehow does. Congratulations to me, I guess.

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