It's that time of year again - swarms of candy heart box buyers cramming the aisles at CVS, desperate husbands searching for the right card (that will do the trick), kids developing cavities from their 37th sweet treat. Then there are the 60-year-old ladies roaming the aisles, smiling a fake half-smile, barely recalling what it felt like to receive a Valen tine. Don't get me wrong. I called this bearable lightness because it is. What a joy it is to to walk by a construction site without fear of whistlers blasting our ear drums, or converse with the male boss and actually hold his gaze. The days of questioning why we were hired (looks) are gone. Our voices are heard. We are respected! Sort of. I am finding that at times, if I look particularly dowdy that day, I am treated with disdain. Not only from men but women. I recently arrived breathless, cold, disheveled to a job, was treated like a bag lady, and a couple days later tested positive for Covid. In the few minutes I interact