| Three Saturdays ago, my husband and I went out to eat with friends at a lakefront shopping center that boasts a full 15 sit-down restaurants. It's never been my favorite place to go; it is usually crowded, and the parking is insanely difficult. But there is plenty of space for outdoor dining, and we figured we would easily find a table. After snagging a miraculous parking spot on the street, we walked to the restaurant at the very end of the complex, passing table after full table, and still wound up waiting about 45 minutes to be seated. The place was teeming. Thousands of people had decided to get back to pre-pandemic enjoyments, and the weather had laid down a glorious red carpet. The horde was mostly made up of families, but we also saw groups of young men and groups of young women, couples without kids, and dogs -- lots and lots of dogs. There were myriad colorful face coverings, though the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention had changed its guidance about wearing masks outdoors. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood. There were no whining children, no surly teenagers, no fighting couples, no barking dogs. It was like a very packed Stepford, if Stepford had been in a diverse Maryland county. I generally do not appreciate crowds. I don't enjoy the noise or the feeling of strangers standing close enough to breathe on me. Nobody outside my friends or family had invaded my personal space for more than a year, and here I'd gone from socially distant existence straight to mob scene, without stopping at, say, really crowded grocery store. After my initial shock, however, I found myself happily enduring the wait for a table. Our group of four stood against the railing along the artificial lake and looked at the paddle-boaters, the groups picnicking on the hill in circles drawn to maintain social distancing, the flocks of families passing to and fro and reveling in near-normality. I was wondering why I was enjoying it so much when I realized I was doing something I hadn't even realized I had missed: I was people watching. Thankfully, the joyful circumstances made my extremely sudden return to pre-pandemic-like conditions pleasant. But it might have been smart for me to be more thoughtful about it. Freelancer Erin Shaw Street has written a helpful guide for people who might be anxious about navigating the reentry to society -- based on the principles taught to the newly sober. In other stories this week, reporter Allyson Chiu looks into whether Facebook's new policy on likes will make a difference in users' mental health. Freelance writer Kari Wiginton tells us how to make the most of the limited focus we have. And Pam Moore fills us in on the pandemic-boosted fitness activity of jump-roping. Here's something I learned: If you do it right, it's not high-impact. Take care!
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