“The past is a different country: they do things differently there.” L.P. Hartley, The Go-Between

At the cusp of the pandemic, an old friend contacted me for the first time in decades. We began on a sad note— learning of a death—before engaging in a lively, absorbing correspondence that lasted through much of the year. Recently, I contacted a childhood pal and we sifted through our short shared past. Ah, the past! L.P. Hartley’s finger wag first line of The Go-Between reminds us ‘The past is a different country: they do things differently there.’ Thomas Wolfe’s You Can’t Go Home Again warns that attempting to recreate the past is futile. Despite these dire predictions, some old friends do reunite, as some old friends remain constant—a home still there. During this past year, I’ve had reason to think about friendship past, present and future, as though conjugating a living noun.

“Only connect!” E.M. Forster, Howards End

The friends of my youth are old now, old friends whether they are in my life or not. The years stretch back and catch up like an extended and released rubber band: snap! we’re old. Then again, there are other types of old friends, old regardless of when we connected or what their ages are now. The friendship feels old (comfortable, deep, secure) despite its relatively short existence because of the quality of the connection.

What is it about the quality of connection between old friends? What is the difference between friendships that last and those that don’t? The roll of the dice in life makes a difference, of course—survival is key. Circumstances of health, family, location, interests and politics matter to varying degrees. With some friends the constancy of experience together over time is necessary and with others it doesn’t matter. Reunions click even after years of silence. Like frayed wires easily mended, they mend. With other attempts at reunion, the friendships just sort of…short out.

“Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold.” Scout song

Before the pandemic I would have said that making new friends becomes harder and harder as we age. But my own experience proves otherwise, because as it turns out, two new friends were just around one corner and the renewal and rejuvenation of an old friendship or two around another—despite or because of the pandemic. Still many friends were lost along the way and there’s been no reunion. With some, it’s a shame, but with others, it’s OK: they gave up on me or I gave up on them—or we were careless with each other. Friends far and few between—silver and gold—connections forged, sustained or renewed, or connections lost, some mourned and remembered with love.

You’ve seen TV commercials for Prevagen on cable news? While you watched the Capitol rampage and the second impeachment trial, a Prevagen ad popped up, surely. Even if you watched for mere seconds before turning it off in horror, you were bound to see a Prevagen commercial.

What is Prevagen? Prevagen is a supplement touted as a reversal for age-related memory loss. The manufacturer, Quincy Bioscience in Madison, WI, claims that in a clinical study Prevagen “…was shown to improve memory in subgroups of participants with normal cognitive aging or mild impairment.”

The main ingredient in Prevagen is a photoprotein extracted from jellyfish, apoaequorin. Apoaequorin plus calcium provide the cool bioluminescence jellyfish enjoy. Like many ingredients, apoaequorin is digested in the human stomach and gets nowhere near the brain, where its function as a photoprotein would… what? Light up the interior of the skull? Sounds like fun, but not useful for memory improvement. Unless the skull is a dark attic, the photoprotein a flashlight, and the missing memory a box of old photos in a corner. They’re not.

The results of Quincy Bioscience’s Prevagen study consist of a bar graph showing a rise in recall tasks over 90 days. But there’s no way to know what these numbers refer to, how many people were studied, or other important details, like what recall tasks? Four words repeated in a row? What did you have for breakfast? Who’s the President of the United States?—scratch this question—it no longer works as a recall task for everyone. And no information is provided about effects on memory after 90 days. The fine print under the graph says that the supplement “improved recall tasks in subjects” without explaining what this means.

The results of the clinical study were not peer reviewed by any member of the scientific literature body nor the FDA. In fact, the U.S. Federal Trade Commission charged Quincy Bioscience with fraud in 2012 (the case is ongoing).

So how is it we still suffer from Prevagen TV advertising as it remains on the shelves of pharmacists who may or may not recommend it to their customers? Because supplement manufacturers are not required to undergo the FDA process required for prescription drugs. That process requires proof of clinical safety and efficacy. The prescription drug manufacturing process and product contents are reviewed and analysed completely. Limits and standards are set for what should be in the drug, and what should not, and are followed over time for expiration dating. Note that the FDA is reviewing the lack of processes in place for supplements with an eye toward increasing rigor.

Supplement makers are allowed to make a connection between their product and the body’s structure and function. Supplement makers currently cannot claim that their product cures or prevents disease. Prevagen’s marketing runs mighty close to the wind with hints about preventing Alzheimer’s or dementia.

The question is, how do they get away with it? Well, there’s no rigorous review of their data and there’s vigorous data massage. And then there’s p-hacking (the p value is the measurement of statistical significance after analysis of data)—or going back in to re-analyze. As Anthony Pearson, MD, reported in https://www.medpagetoday.com/blogs/skeptical-cardiologist/80321, “A great article on the Prevagen case from the McGill University Office of Science and Society summarizes the problems with this re-analysis: This is an after-the-fact, unplanned exploration of the data to see if anything else of interest happened in the trial. Some might call it a fishing expedition. Scientists do this all the time, but with a big caveat: post hoc results are considered tentative, not conclusive. Before they’re accepted as valid outcomes, they need to be confirmed by additional studies.

That’s because random events happen all the time in scientific studies. Some of them may seem statistically significant, but they’re flukes and not the result of cause-and-effect. And the more post hoc analyses you do (like the more than 30 Quincy Bioscience did), the more likely you’ll encounter these chance results.

Scientists guard against accepting them as real by setting a high bar for statistical significance and by not accepting post hoc findings until they’ve been tested again. For a more in-depth analysis, see the deep dive by Jann Bellamy at Science-Based Medicine in “Prevagen goes P-hacking.“

Supplements have strong anecdotal support and Prevagen is no outlier. Unfortunately, when put through a rigorous study that generates peer-reviewed data, there is little evidence of any support or improvement linked to many of them. Prevagen is not an outlier there either.

But let’s get back to the commercials, which add weirdness to this tale. Each Prevagen commercial features a different Prevagen taker or set of takers. The advertising premise is a few minutes spent with a real person(s) really taking Prevagen with good results. They don’t seem like actors and they don’t seem unalike. Middle class, older of course, the majority are white, but there is one Black man, a substitute teacher and inspirational speaker by trade. All of them, however, have a very strange affect, one that at least hints at some sort of affliction already in the works.

In one commercial, the protagonist is an older man. He is a fly fisherman (he has a beautiful cast), has six children and grandchildren. His speaking voice is low and slow. His movement is ponderous. He reports slowly that Prevagen has helped him an awful lot.

In another version, another older man is shown preparing to shoot (but not shooting) a basketball. He praises his own memory. His voice is also low and slow, his movement also ponderous.

In yet another version, an older woman lives in the mountains and has an art studio in her house. Every day she goes to her studio first thing, where she encounters people who praise her artwork (who are they and how did they get into the house?). She speaks and moves more quickly than the two men, her face is more mobile, but she seems quite…off.

Then there’s the older married couple. The couple are shown performing their various happy, healthy older persons’ activities. They walk—she follows him as he moves as though trekking up Denali. They write—laptops in evidence, he says, “We consult, but we also write,” pronounced RRRRiTTTe. Consult about what? Write what? He reads the newspaper aloud while she hangs on his every word. She gets a star turn to announce that after 11 years, Prevagen is still helping her (the company’s answer to what happens after the 90 days). Let’s see, 11 years x 12 months/year x $32+shipping/30 tablets = $4224+ (x2 for “extra strength” Prevagen). More than enough for a super nice pre-pandemic vacation or a super donation to a food bank now.

Prevagen use can’t be to blame for their shared idiosyncrasies, can it? But would any potential customer actually want to behave, sound or move like any of them? Is it a side effect of Prevagen? Doesn’t the ad agency see that? Perhaps they’re taking Prevagen, too.

Some may say, what’s the harm? The consumers in the commercials aren’t cutting back on food in order to take Prevagen. Beyond lifestyle recommendations, science and medicine haven’t offered anything up to seniors terrified of dementia, so why not? The placebo effect is a strong one, so if consumers feel that it helps, why not?…but it doesn’t help and it could harm them further. Severe side effects have been reported as linked to Prevagen use.

Robert H. Shmerling, MD wrote in https://www.health.harvard.edu/blog/fda-curbs-unfounded-memory-supplement-claims-2019053116772 “Unlike prescription drugs, supplements are not thoroughly tested or evaluated. While dietary supplements might provide benefits in certain cases, it’s vitally important that their makers not make unfounded claims to exploit consumers. And, of course, these products should contain only what they’re supposed to contain.”

In other words, aside from the apoaequorin, Prevagen consumers don’t know what they are consuming exactly. What else is in it? They also don’t know the quantity or quality of that mystifying ingredient. Even the origin of the apoaequorin is in question: extracted from jellyfish or engineered in a lab E. coli strain? Only the FDA submission and approval process (and yes, it’s a long, expensive and labor-intensive one) can provide that knowledge by rigorously reviewing both the manufacturing and clinical data required by law.

Prevagen’s producers did not want to wait the ten plus years required for peer and FDA review—and the threat of failure to approve—before raking in millions https://www.wired.com/story/prevagen-made-millions-fda-questioned-safety/. But at what real cost to the consumer?

For more musings on modern life, see https://www.constancegemmett.com/unprecedented/

HEROINE OF HER OWN LIFE Kindle promotion today through January 27 on all Amazon marketplaces, US, UK, EU. $0.99 to download. Visit http://mybook.to/heroineoholhc to purchase and to check out many of Next Chapter’s versions of the book. The sequel is in the wings, so download today!

Candy apple red—a color that joins the flame of fall’s reds, oranges and golds. Treats of this color reliably make their fall appearance in several countries as though the confluence of the apple harvest, Hallowe’en, and the UK’s Guy Fawkes/Bonfire Night (November 5th) predestined the bond of red sugar shellac and apple. Some weeks ago I noticed red hard-coated candy apples for sale in our local supermarket. As my father might have joked, “A free pair of dentures with every candy apple,” (if you can stand it, another of my father’s jokes may be found in the post, constancegemmett.com/the-4th-of-july)

Still, those candy apples drew my eye, the candy apple red color a beacon. The draw was one of nostalgia and not temptation. Nostalgia for my childhood, but also my youth, when we briefly owned a candy apple red 1966 Mustang.

As a child, my small choppers could not break their way in, so my father started the candy apples for me. Once he cracked the red shellac, I could access the rest.

At some point, I discovered caramel-coated apples. Easier to eat, the caramel apples were sometimes rolled in peanuts—delicious! My father then was relegated to eating his own candy apple, but I don’t think he indulged. Our ritual was the only draw for him.

It was hard to choose between the candy apples regardless, since the color candy apple red is both lurid and alluring. Some sort of fantasy of owning a candy apple red Mustang led us to buying a wreck of one in the very early 1980s. The car body was banged up—a dull version of its original glory. We bought the faded red 1966 Mustang for next to no money, which was fortuitous since I had none. Suzy and I were friends then. Friends usually don’t buy cars together, but the purchase, the ownership and the inevitable sale did bring us together.

I’d never driven a 225 HP V8 before and though our Mustang had it’s problems, lack of zip was not one of them. Getting it going was. We kept a plumber’s wrench in the glove compartment in order to bang on the solenoid. A few well-aimed smacks and the engine would fire up and if lead-footed on the accelerator, you were off to the races!

Reality set in during the month in which the Mustang had to pass a Massachusetts inspection. I’m sure they didn’t use the testing machines inspection sites do now. Regardless, the Mustang’s carbon output would have flunked any inspection, the inspector overcome by dizzying carbon monoxide fumes. Worse though was the fact—unknown to us—that the car just wasn’t…connected.

I had the bright idea to take it to an inspection station in the city of Chelsea, its reputation for corruption leading me astray. A ten dollar bill burned a guilty hole in my pocket. But as Sam Spade said in The Maltese Falcon, “Don’t be too sure I’m as crooked as I’m supposed to be.” The inspector wasn’t either. He was downright avuncular, lecturing me on the dangerous condition of the car. The chassis was not connected to the body of the car, just vaguely related. He finished with a flourish, affixing whatever sticker used to show every cop the car had not passed inspection. His last words a philosophical question, “Lady, if I pass this car, what car would I not pass?”

We parted ways, the inspector, Chelsea and I, the ten dollar bill still in my pocket, and I drove home to Cambridge. We decided the Mustang had to go, not actually being a roadworthy car. Suzy sold it to a young enthusiast for next to nothing. He did return the car to glory, but one day the ’66 Mustang—candy apple red once more—died while crossing commuter rail train tracks. The young man wisely fled to safety but alas, the train destroyed the Mustang, giving the weary commuters something to talk about. My guess is he forgot to smack the solenoid.

1980 spluttered to a halt just shy of forty years ago. 1966 ran out of gas fifty-four years ago. I guzzled my last candy apple more than fifty-four years ago. Apples seem as sweet as candy, so why flirt with expensive dental work? Candy apple red remains a lurid and alluring color—a promise of fun, adventure, danger—but at my age, the threat of danger puts a lid on the other two. No cars going around corners on two wheels for me, no Russian roulette with teeth. I have found a safe version of the Mustang in my dull brown, giant 2019 RAM truck. Put your foot down and it goes like gee whiz, the satisfying roar of the Hemi enhancing the experience.

Ford is rolling out an electric Mustang this year—bravo. Reported to be a small, peppy SUV (is the idea to compete with Tesla’s new SUV?), more utility than sport. Available in Rapid Red. It’s an attractive vehicle, but fuddy-duddy enough for those old enough longing for the ’66 version. ‘Tis a pity they didn’t name the color Candy Apple Red—

Readers of three years’ standing may remember a post that spins off from my volunteer job as the secretary of our local cemetery association to contemplation of our human struggle to appreciate our lives, www.constancegemmett.com/every-every-minute/. If not, it’s a suitably autumnal piece you may enjoy, pertinent to both our current state of affairs and the story below.

Last week I was fulfilling my duties as secretary by showing a couple the available cemetery plots for purchase. Masked and at a distance, we accomplished our goal, wished each other well, and parted company.

Today, I received an email from one of the pair, promising a funny story, which in part read:

“Constance it was great meeting you on Saturday.  Thank you for facilitating our purchase.  Here is my funny story……..  I like to read…and so I started…a reading journal a few years ago.  Well now that I have retired, I have been reading a lot more and had a whole stack of books to enter.  I started writing one in and I noticed that the author’s name was Constance Emmett.  I had really enjoyed it ( Heroine of Her Own Life).  I noticed the author’s name and thought ‘What are the chances……..?’  I googled the name and what did I come up with?”

The googling confirmed that the masked woman selling cemetery plots was indeed the same person as the author of Heroine Of Her Own Life, yours truly. Finding this a delightful coincidence, I thanked her for both telling me and for enjoying the book. Meeting someone out of the blue who has both read and enjoyed Heroine Of Her Own Life is sheer bliss.

My adventures in hair reached a new level yesterday as I applied cordless clippers in a fit of daring-do. The story could end here quickly with the word disaster—although possibly too strong a word—for what I have now is a puffy top with a shaved back. When I asked my spouse for her opinion, she pulled on the tail that drips down the back of my head and said dryly, “I don’t think cutting any more will help.”

My hairdo is a Davy Crockett hat, faux coonskin very popular with the children of the 1950s, thanks to the Fess Parker TV show. I never had the hat, but I coveted one, even though I didn’t like the show. As the King of the Wild Frontier, Fess couldn’t act his way out of a racoon den, and even Buddy Ebsen in the cast didn’t help. But I have the hat now.

Adventures in hair continue throughout life, although they first rage during adolescence when nobody—nobody I ever knew—was happy with her hair. I look at photos of the teen me now and wonder what I ever had to complain about. OK, the flip was not a good look for anyone, but it was the style, and it was a lovely color (real), a light brown with red and blonde highlights, and shiny. With absolutely no memory of who cut my hair in those days (not me, not my mother), I only remember tussling with my mother over the use of shampoo—my use too frequent in her view—and never thinking my hair looked good. My best friend ironed her hair to straighten it and while I watched her perform this amazing feat in awe, I was never tempted.

In youth, adventures in hair follow the fashions of the day. Long and free, curled, permed, teased and big, short, longer. Later, the adventures in hair become a little desperate, as we try and settle on the real us, our real look, just not such a middle-aged version. The color goes and we make the choice to dye, or not, and stick with that color, or not.

Still later, adventures in hair continue with the big question, what hairdo does an older woman look best wearing? The graceful ageing thing applies to hair as much as anything else, so the decisions should be based on grace. However, grace is not always easy to achieve, especially under fire. Does your hair proceed you down the aisle of age, or hang back a little?

Adventures in hair seep into my fiction. The characters obsess little about hair, but where appropriate (the young Meg in Heroine Of Her Own Life, for instance), they worry and change their hair. I describe the color, quality and styles of the characters’ hair, including facial hair. The characters age, and their hair ages and is transformed over time, too. In 1922, Meg and Mary take steps into the modern world and have their Victorian hair bobbed.

During World War II, everybody has more pressing things to do than worry about hair. This is true in Heroine and in the sequel under production. To save time shaving on board a Royal Navy ship and irritating his skin, Meg’s nephew Robert grows a beard. Meg’s brother David grows a beard to save hot water. Lillian’s chestnut hair becomes silver-streaked and she wears it up, often full of pencils as she works at Stranmillis Typing. Meg’s russet hair remains short, while Annie, living in America during the war, wears her silver hair in a bun. In the late 1960s Lillian’s nephew Albert grows bald, but he cultivates long sideburns as compensation. Hair styles say as much about fictional characters as our own follicle arrangements say about us. https://www.constancegemmett.com/online-independent-bookstores-now-selling-heroine-of-her-own-life/

The pandemic took my adventures in hair to another level, even before the fatal cordless clipper purchase. Like everyone, I found myself in a needs must situation after my last professional hairdressing in March. Through July, I hadn’t the slightest inclination to be two feet away from five people (mine plus two other hairdressers and their clients), blow dryers blasting, our droplets swirling in the air. The last hair cut lasted for a good long time, but the color began to go. I let it, even though that would have been easy to fix. My hairdresser decided the pandemic was a good time to retire. The last link to an appreciated professional gone.

A few You Tubes later, I gave it a gentle trim with a small pair of scissors. Pleased with the result, I gave my hair a second trim a few weeks later. Nothing adventurous. Going for grace. Going, going, gone—I ordered the clippers, courting disaster. Once the clippers arrived, I summoned my courage and stormed the bathroom mirror well armed.

So what happened? An adventure in hair! The clipper kit included color-coded guards for the business end. The instructions listed the guards by the portion of inch they represented. After swooping at the back of my head with the smallest guard, 1/8″, I stopped. The amount of hair coming off was rather long. Apparently, I had confused the 1/8″ as the amount CUT, rather than the amount LEFT on the head. At least I started in the back…so, I am left with a David Crockett. At some point I’ll figure out how to ameliorate this hairdo, and enjoy yet another adventure in hair! Or I’ll just let it grow.

Members of the UK Naphill Alternative Book Club Zoom-interviewed me last week after reading HEROINE OF HER OWN LIFE. It was a wonderful experience since the women asked many insightful questions about writing and publishing the book, and also about the back stories, including mine. The book club members joining Zoom had high praise for HEROINE OF HER OWN LIFE and seemed to have enjoyed reading it—my head swelled—but my favorite comments were by Olly, a Belfast native, who commented that the novel’s language was perfect and “Thank you for taking me home.” Higher praise I could not wish for…Many thanks to neighbor, friend and book club member Peggy for setting this great experience in motion. Cheers, ladies for a wonderful experience—looking forward to sharing HEROINE’S sequel with you soon!

Heroine Of Her Own Life News: Reviewed and Imprinted! Merch!(Opens in a new browser tab)

Online/independent bookstores now selling HEROINE OF HER OWN LIFE(Opens in a new browser tab)

My Grandmother, Part I—Belfast(Opens in a new browser tab)

My Grandmother, Part II—Belfast, Still(Opens in a new browser tab)

My Grandmother, Part III—Belfast to Brooklyn to Maryland(Opens in a new browser tab)

Interview of CE by Gabriela Pereira, Chief Instigator at DIY MFA(Opens in a new browser tab)

As the month draws to a close, it’s time to reflect on the glory that is June: the dazzle of bright green leaves in the sun and warmth after a long winter, which in Western Massachusetts can have plenty of gas left in May. The palette of May includes the range of daffodil yellows, syringa lilac, the dull green of asparagus shoots, the electric green and red of male hummingbirds, and often the white of snow. All the more glory left to June.

The garden seems to peak in June, just as the heaviest work in the garden recedes and ticks over into maintenance until fall. Here in the foothills of the Berkshires we see the first blooms of summer in June—orange, the full magenta range, fifty shades of white—and the first full leaves on trees. In June we begin to dine on the lettuce, peas, scallions, and herbs we planted, fingers crossed, after the last frost (or in the case of asparagus, the bed we planted years before).

As the month wanes, the glamorous peonies are ruined—ripped down by heavy and much-needed rain. The lupine flowers are past, the furry fat seeds left waiting to disperse. Irises, so perfect in their sharp blue, are long gone, leaving the spears of leaves to point skyward. A few of the roses, which bloom first in June, are now in need of a thorough deadheading and another round of soap spray.

The garden doesn’t really peak in June—it’s an illusion conjured by winter-weary eyes—the plant succession continues. The bee balm has not bloomed yet, nor have the rudbeckia and Asiatic lilies. The tiger lilies are opening, so are the clematis vine blooms, and the drifts of milkweed, ready to host the Monarch caterpillars, rise above the rest of the grasses and clover in the field.

The garden is beautiful for the rest of the summer and into late fall, as are the hills that wrap around us. Butterflies arrived earlier in June, but soon the little gardens and field planted for pollinators will teem with them, vying with the moths, bees and hummingbirds for purchase on the tempting flowers. As they feed, the days will grow shorter, until the sad day arrives when we realize they’re all gone: hummingbirds, Swallowtail, Fritillary, Monarch butterflies, and their migratory avian comrades. As we put away the garden tools and deck furniture, our attention will turn to setting up the bird feeders (after the bears go to sleep) for our stalwart winter companions: juncos, chickadees, cardinals, titmice. Their colors and habits will entertain and intrigue us all winter, along with those of the deer and rarely, bobcats and foxes.

We will continue to revel in the glory that is June for the last two nights, when the lightening bugs offer love in blasts of light, under a starry sky or in the rain. June gives us hope in the little green tomatoes, flowering potato plants, the fuzzy little tops of carrots, miniature beets, parsnips and Brussel sprouts. The young fruit trees are covered with tiny cherries and apples. June is the sight of cucumbers, zucchini and pole beans growing before our eyes, like time-lapsed photographs, onward and upward. No terrible pestilence has befallen any of the vegetables yet, no critter has ravished them: it’s June.

Despite everything, will it be a good summer after all? Here, in June, it feels like one, as we sit on the deck overlooking the field, thinking of nothing, gazing at the glorious greens, absorbing the buzz and clicks of the hummingbirds, the perfect air, the rest of the world shut out—that is the glory that is June.

In a pandemic, retirees know what to do: how to get through the days, the weeks, the months. Your first thought about retirees may concern the age demographic’s susceptibility to the disease, and while present and frightening, that does not erase our competence during the pandemic (as long as we remain uninfected, but that goes for everyone).

The competence of retirees in a pandemic is this: the ability to impose structure where there is none imposed.

Self-isolation/quarantine/lockdown in the face of the Covid-19 pandemic is the responsible course—just as thorough hand washing and mask/glove wearing in public are—it’s the only course until there is a consistent decrease in infection over time, and ideally, a proven vaccine and treatment available. The internet and newspapers are filled daily with suggestions for how to survive in isolation: what to cook, how to entertain ourselves, what to read and binge watch. Learn a language! Write a book! Learn to dance! Draw! Zoom a Zumba class! Clean the closets and repair those frayed hems! Like these are new ideas for occupying oneself. Hey, retirees, we’ve got this!—a loathsome phrase, but we really do.

So in the spirit of helping fellow humans who have not retired yet—folks who are quickly losing it, according to the internet and newspapers—here is a list of 10 to-do’s to help you stay sane, healthy, productive, svelte, and sweet smelling for whomever is locked up with you. Non-retirees: read and learn.

1. Get out of bed. In the morning. It’s a big step, but think about the lure of coffee or tea, whichever you prefer first thing in the a.m. (bourbon does not count). If you are sleeping poorly, take a nap in the afternoon, but get up at a reasonable hour in the a.m. And make the bed.
2. Take a shower. It’s allowed to touch your face while washing it. Wash your hair. Hair (cutting and coloring) is a serious problem now, unless you are a hairdresser or are locked up with one (warning: do not allow your non-hairdresser partner to cut your hair; cut it yourself and take the blame)—the least you can do is wash it. Moisturize in order to maintain the barrier that is healthy skin. Wash in the evening or the morning, whichever is your preference, but wash. Regularly.
3. Get dressed. Don’t lounge around in pj’s or underwear or some cringe-worthy combo of same. Or worse yet, a bathrobe. Put clothes on, even if it’s a “track” outfit. Pretend you are going out (more on that later in the list) or answering the door (ding-dong!) and you have to meet and greet someone. When Zooming with your boss, family or friends, wear something appropriate on top but don’t succumb to wearing something unreasonable on the bottom (in an emergency, you might forget and jump up, and you’ll never, ever live that down). For heaven’s sake, change your clothes for clean ones on a regular basis. If you are unlucky enough not to have a washer/dryer in your home, this makes things tougher, but washing by hand is possible and the activity will soak up many hours. Think of how life on the prairie was for the settlers.
4. Don’t spend all day and night on the internet. If you have to work from home, first, count yourself lucky to be employed, but don’t log out of the company account just to turn on the gambling channel, Facebook, Instagram, Googlezon or Twitterpin. It’s better for your brain and your eyes to resist the screen for some portion of each day. So yes, read, cook, clean, exercise without a screen on—all good suggestions, even if they are posted on the internet as pandemic activities.
5. Don’t sit all day. Sitting has long been described as the new smoking (don’t do that either) because it’s so detrimental to your health (starting with your rear end). Get up and move around, doing one of the many aforementioned actions: cooking, cleaning, exercising, dancing around like Gilda Radner on SNL (you’re allowed to YouTube it). Just get up every hour or so and move. As retirees know well, joints tend to stiffen with age, but even young joints benefit from the hydration increase caused by movement.
6. Go outside. As long as you are not under actual lockdown, go out, get some air. If you are under actual lockdown, stick your head out of the window. Most cities, states and countries allow for some outside time: walking the dog, walking or running oneself, even if the time and distance are limited. Grocery and pharmacy shopping are included in these permissions, but while necessary, shopping is so stressful that it is not a listed recommendation.
7. Don’t eat or drink too much. This pandemic is extremely stressful, and there’s no arguing with the pressure of that stress. Eating and drinking too much are fairly common responses to stress even now, when planning a shopping trip is on a level with the planning of D-Day. Find some other way that isn’t bad for you to relieve stress. The YMCA does provide loads of online courses, including yoga and meditation—whatever—find a path between the virtuous and utter degradation—enjoy a cocktail of any sort and rant and rave at the news channel of your choice, for instance (certain retirees have been doing that for at least 3.5 years). You’ll think of something.
8. Clean the house. OK, nobody ever comes over anymore, and if they did, you’d tell them to go away. The FedEx and the UPS guys (why are they never women?) are the closest thing you have to visitors, and they don’t get past the front door. The tendency is to become a tad…disinclined. As all retirees know, this must be nipped in the bud! Clear up the clutter. Don’t leave dishes in the sink. Above all, clean the bathroom, but vacuum too. It’s pollen season.
9. Make a to-do list. Even if you don’t get through all the items, it will keep you attached to the world, and you may actually get some things done! It will beat back the chaos inherent to the universe, at least for a little while, and will focus your mind. The isolation has cut you off, you are adrift. All retirees know better than to let that happen. Anchor yourself to the tasks only you can do!
10. Be grateful. If you’re stuck at home, you’re not on your way to your dangerous job in a hospital, fire station, nursing home, grocery store, delivery vehicle, police car, post office or garbage truck. If you’re stuck at home, odds are that you are pretty healthy. If you’re pretty healthy, be grateful. Stay grateful and healthy.

Heroine Of Her Own Life is available through Bookshop www.bookshop.org ($13.99), where you can search for bookshops in your area, book titles, and authors. Now more than ever it’s important to support independent bookstores. Grateful for friend Peter’s eagle eye finding Bookshop and for their efforts.

From the Bookshop home page: “Buy books online. Support local bookstores. An online bookstore that financially supports local independent bookstores and gives back to the book community: $727,644.98 raised for local bookstores.”

A shout out also to A Room Of One’s Own Books www.roomofonesown.com in Madison, WI, independently operating since 1975. Closed as a walk-in bookshop/event space for now, but operating by mail for the foreseeable. Heroine Of Her Own Life is available here too ($13.99 paperback and $17.99 large print). In normal times, the bookstore also hosts many events and provides important community safe space. A Room Of One’s Own website offers an easy way to donate toward their survival.