OK, here we go: the countdown is over.
Today, provided the health rules are followed, we will be able to sit down somewhere that is not our home and have a bite, or a brew.
If we want to catch a zumba class, or a hot rock treatment at the spa, we can do so.
If you want to get together with four other couples to take down a loaf of Italian pandemic bread that option is there.
And soon, praise the Gods, so will the possibility of once again watching Serge Ibaka and Kyle Lowry run that high pick-and-roll.
The point is that re-entry is underway. Speaking for myself, I can say that it will not be a pretty sight.
Let us start with the hair: shaggier than it has been since Roger Bacon was premier, devoid of all shape other than that imparted by the headgear usually covering it.
Something will have to be done about that, although from the sounds of things it may be winter before Tamara has an opening.
Something, as well, will have to happen to the wardrobe, which has descended even more deeply into monochromatic blues, blacks and grays, leavened only occasionally by clashing plaids, and tops bearing obscure business names, like John's Garage.
Now that someone other than my wife will be laying eyes upon me there can be no more wearing the same pants day after day until they harden to the point where they can stand in the corner by themselves, like a sculpture.
I must, I think, also say goodbye to the Dickensian layering of clothing that, when glimpsed in the mirror, gives me the look of a dweller in some dystopian time, which I suppose is about right.
But that's just the obvious, easy stuff, like finally getting rid of the winter studs now that the car will be back out on the road again, like putting down the storm chips now that the existential dread seems to be passing, and the baking pan now that pre-pandemic clothes must be fit into.
Returning to the real world requires new equipment — masks, wipes, gloves and disinfectants — and patience, since, from the looks of it, things that used to happen quickly will now take awhile.
Returning to civilization also requires human interaction. Mine, reserved mostly for Zoom meeting rooms, is mighty rusty.
I seem to recall, from the pre-pandemic days, that conversation could flow. When things were really working, a mutual give-and-take could ensue.
Now I fear that the time delay of the Zoom room, the tough lessons learned about the importance of the mute button, and all the glancing around trying to determine who has just spoken, has thrown my normal conversational rhythm off.
I notice that there is a lot of standing there and blinking when I run into neighbours on the road.
That may be just habit, born in these past months, when there was little to talk about beyond the pandemic, and the latest news from the McNeil-Strang show.
And surely no one has to worry about material for conversation now, at a time when the fight against COVID-19 is still being waged, the United States implodes, and anti-racism seems to be experiencing its breakthrough moment.
But starting today as we emerge into the light we will all have to remember that the world is different now.
When you run into an old friend the manly handshake, the bro hug and faire la bise, the French cheek kiss, are all forbidden remnants of the pre-plague era.
I guess I will cross that bridge when I get to it, since the Wuhan foot shake seems like the purview of younger folk, and the elbow bump just sort of lame.
I understand that there is no such choice when it comes to keeping our distance, now viewed as thoughtful rather than standoffish.
I also am enough in the world to realize that “take care” has been replaced by “stay safe” as the appropriate comment when parting with company.
It makes sense: the former phrase was a throwaway, muttered over the shoulder as you walked away.
The goodbye in the Age of COVID is an admonition, befitting the times in which we live.
