The Column: Tiptoeing into Panera counts as bravery, doesn't it?

Here is a pandemic update: We’re back at Panera.

There is just so much hardship a couple of American retirees can be expected to bear, global health crisis or not.

My wife, Wink, and I have been among the most cautious of individuals since this whole thing began, edging only with the greatest hesitancy toward the world as we dimly remember it.

Movies? Really, people sit in a big, dark room eating ice cream bonbons and watching car chases on a big screen? You don’t say.

Whatever happened to the wedding reception? I have a faint recollection of guests jostling for appetizers and, after sufficient glasses of discount Champagne, line dancing to something by Shania Twain and shouting, "heehaw." Still happening? Remarkable.

A couple of weeks ago, Wink and I were in Brooklyn. We considered dinner at a longtime favorite spot. The city demands proof of vaccination just to get in the door — "carded" again after all these years! — so we thought, hey, we’re boosted, let’s give it a try.

An open table — and friendly host — beckoned. Otherwise, the place — snug and cozy — was packed. We could see the happy diners, most considerably younger, but we’re used to that, laughing and exhorting loudly.

Wink and I looked at one another and, in unison, reversed field before capture — an escape attempt worthy of "Abbott and Costello Meet the Mummy."

We did not look back.

"A lot of breath in there," Wink said.

"Probably safe, though."

"Yeah," said Wink. "Probably."

On the next corner was a taco truck.

"Looks like dinner to me," I said.

"Extra hot sauce," said Wink.

Others are not so edgy.

"You’ve got to get out more," an old friend said when I told her how rarely we do much of anything.

"Soon," I said. "Maybe."

But, OK, I’m giving us a break.

The past 20 months have been the most surreal of our lives — and remember we not only survived poodle skirts, Tiny Tim and the macarena but four children in five years.

Yes, four in five.

This is just asking for exhaustion fierce enough to induce a hallucinatory state. Imagine four teenage drivers at the same time. Imagine the insurance. Imagine one or another admitting to destroying the garage door — again.

"Doesn’t it open automatically?"

But nothing compares to the alternate reality that has taken root since casual conversation became limited to case counts, sore arms, new variants, travel bans — and where to score home test kits.

"Found some," cheered a daughter as if having hit the lottery. "Going fast."

Let’s say, for sure, that any small inconveniences we’ve suffered are nothing to what many others have faced, and, petty complaints aside, we are grateful. So far, so good, we tell ourselves daily. Keep on truckin’.

Yes, but we can’t keep truckin’ if conducting ourselves like a small order of ascetic monks.

Our friend is correct — we have to re-enter, if only on tiptoes.

Accordingly, Panera.

"Should we?" Wink said, excitement in her voice.

"Onward," I answered.

To celebrate our return to the 4 p.m. "lunch" we have so sorely missed, I went for the new Grilled Mac & Cheese sandwich, a classic American innovation — extravagant, overwhelming, irresistible.

Macaroni and cheese heaped between slices of melted Cheddar and toasted white bread. Brilliant. In a nod toward self-denial, I ordered the Pick Two — smaller sandwich, and, for penance, squash soup. Playing it safe, Wink ordered tuna on whole grain.

Oh, it was grand to be out again.

Before us in line were two robust women in flowing robes of dazzling color — ethnic garb, it appeared — and their companion, a man who smiled easily and let the women do the talking.

Only a few tables were occupied — students doing homework and health care employees taking a break and a young woman with a headscarf deep in a book.

Behind the counter, an upbeat manager kept an eye on the operation. Women in company polo shirts turned out order after order and summoned hungry customers when lunch was ready.

"Fred," came the call.

We found a table by the window.

"Nice," said Wink, unhooking her mask.

"One step at a time," I said, glad to be out of mine.

"Progress," said Wink.

"Lucky us."

So far, so good.