So I'm 42..43 in August - assuming that I, or maybe the world makes it that far. A month ago, I would have said that that was just a melodramatic bit of a tantrum, and that my angsty post-goth hyperbole had bubbled through the fragile crust of my adult persona. But now we're in a pandemic. I have never felt more frightened, less safe, or more alone. That's really odd, considering my husband is probably 8 feet from me playing video games. This virus is something new - it manages to divide us physically and emotionally, geographically and idealistically, spiritually and pragmatically. Do I have it? No. I don't think so anyhow. I think the odds are that if I did, my husband or I (or both of us) would already be among the ventilated. It seems impossible, after doing the math a thousand or more times, that we could both escape a dire case. He is possibly asthmatic - he has a rescue inhaler. I'm fat, and may have circulatory or respirato...