My Quarantine Age is….

If I could take a quiz to identify my quarantine age, I would easily register somewhere between 85 and 90.

It was a slow and steady progression to my current geriatric status. It began when several weeks into sheltering in place, I woke up with swollen knees and a complete inability to walk when I first woke up. A few telemedicine calls revealed that I’ve developed arthritis, so that when Tim and I go on our morning walk, it takes me about half a mile before my joints loosen up and let me walk without hobbling.

Lucky for me, due to Tim’s hoarder tendencies, he offered me some assistance in the form of a “HurryCane,” a cleverly-named cane to help me hobble around the house. Actually, it’s not really that cleverly-named because I hardly hurry with it, but it does help some. Dear Tim has also helped heave me down into plenty of epsom salt baths, helped me put on my sports bras on days my wrists hurt too much to dress myself, and basically, remains the same saint I married 17 years ago and I’m very glad to have him on hand.

Because doing a lot of physical activity has been difficult, and because staying at home started out nice enough but eventually led to increased depression and anxiety, I started doing jigsaw puzzles to pass the time. Between the dedicated Wheel of Fortune watching, this weird new obsession with jigsaw puzzles, and my HurryCane hobbling, our living room has suddenly morphed into the day room at the Shady Pines Nursing Home. I just wish I had more old farts to talk to – Tim and Emily Rose can only handle my same old jokes for so long. Too bad we’re all on lockdown, or I might invite some teen piano students to come by and play some hymns for me on weekend afternoons. Until then, there’s always Antiques Roadshow…

When my mother-in-law was still with us, she would tell me that she would look in the mirror and say, “Who is that old woman?” Because though she was in her late 70’s at the time, she said no matter how old you are, you still feel like you’re in your 20’s until you look in the mirror. And I have to agree. I still look behind me when the cashier at the grocery calls me “ma’am,” expecting that they’re talking to an adult woman behind me.

If I’ve learned anything from this pandemic, it’s that it starts out where you think you look more like the young Mandy Moore in “This is Us” but one peep in the mirror in the morning reminds you that you’re actually the grandma version. It’s enough to make you want to add a few shots of vodka to your turmeric and V8 combination (something I’ve just started to combat the arthritis – and a hopeful solution to help me ditch the HurryCane).

I guess the good news is I’m not exactly alone here. We’ve kind of all turned into our grandmas since this pandemic began. Some of you have been baking bread like you’re on some kind of pioneer times reality show where you’re only allowed to make food you grew or baked yourself. Good on you! People are sewing and quilting and raising chickens and watching “Little House on the Prairie,” and there’s something very comforting about it all.

Since this pandemic sadly shows no signs of stopping, I think we should just settle into our new personas and roll with it. I have a really beautiful purple Moroccan caftan gifted to me by a dear friend, and I think it goes quite well with the gold house slippers my sister gifted me for Easter. Just please don’t call my caftan a mumu; that’s where I draw the line.