Another month in isolation. It’s raining (it’s always raining). I’m reading books and watching Criterion. T***p is well along the way to self destruction (there are still predictions out there insisting T***p will not make it to November). I’m living on cauliflower and smoked salmon dreaming of meatloaf in mushroom gravy. Sometimes I am envious of T***p’s Big Macs and KFC.

I don’t know if there is any connection with this pandemic isolation but I am feeling older and older. I rely on my rolling walker to make even the shortest trip across the bedroom (especially at night). I have to ask my son-in-law to open jars for me. My eyes water constantly and I find myself making the computer font larger almost weekly. I still have a sense of humor and a trickle of a sex drive (ha! that’s useful) but two things I have often heard of as diminishing with old age seem to have missed me: I now sleep more than ever and I love to eat.