Every December it’s the same thing; my family and friends chew my ear off with cheery prognostics about the year to come. “This year, I’m going to write a book!” says my sister. “This year, I’ll learn to play piano!” says Mom. “Girls, I’m going to Harvard!” says Elle. All of which makes me seem like a Debbie Downer when I say, “This year, I’m gonna survive a global pandemic.” At first, this year was no exception. Presents unwrapped and figgy puddings consumed, my friends started to make optimistic predictions about the calendar year to come. “2020 will be our year,” they…