Today is my birthday; I'm 66 years old, an age I never imagined reaching back in the day when I should have been planning for this. I have been much luckier than I ever deserved to be.

In Stratford, Ontario, we are stlll in what the Public Health people call "Stage 3", which means masks in all indoor spaces, "social distancing" without masks outside (never have there been so many backyard barbecues in our neck of the suburbs), and the formation of cautious "bubbles", usually relatives, for indoor gatherings.

Bubbling (as we call it) is more complex than it looks at first glance. Yesterday, my hairdresser talked about how whip-sawed she feels between the socialization needs and wants of her elderly mother, her children and her grandchildren, not to mention herself. The administrators of her mother's care home recently announced that she could take her mother out, but if they go to her house -- also frequented by her children and grandchildren -- does she have to bar the younger generations, some of whom are going to school? If so, for how long?

Yikes.

Meanwhile, at the salon, every customer's temperature is taken and recorded on entry, and every visit is documented with a signed undertaking about travel and contact with sick people.

When I tanked up the car the other day, it was only my third visit to the pumps since St. Patrick's Day. I have driven less than 2,000 kilometres in five and a half months, all of it to and from doctors' offices and grocery stores. Fun happens at home, entertainment is a book or Netflix, and exercise is a long walk or a bout of heavy housecleaning.

The cats approve, of course. The house is almost never unattended by humans, so a lap is always available when a lap is wanted. Who can say fairer than that?