You know how reclusive people get weird from their lack of social interaction? Welcome to 2021.

My personal weirdness bubbles up in several ways. I've always talked to myself. Now I am answering myself, too. And my arguments with TV commercial spokesmen have become comically sassy. Less amusing is this feeling of being utterly drained of ambition, like a desiccated plant waiting hopelessly for the splash of inspiration that will lead to new growth.

I've been trying to put together a new post for weeks. My Current Blog Notes folder houses at least six false starts, mostly laments, like, I don't want to:

. . . spend another year suffocating behind a mask, just to mingle with others.

. . . have all of my social contacts be contactless. (Social distancing? Hah! Better named anti-social distancing.)

. . . keep pushing the "hold" button on plans for meeting new people or sharing home cooked meals.

But more whining diatribes from a depressed fellow sufferer? Who needs that.

As an antidote to my listless attitude, this past Monday morning I dove into cleaning and organizing. This works for me. There's something therapeutic and calming about taking control of my immediate environment, especially when the world outside my front door is ruled by confusing and sometimes illogical dictates from others.

From a psychological perspective, uncluttered, orderly surroundings are conducive to uncluttered, orderly thinking. And practically speaking, it's a great distraction.

Plowing in has its pitfalls, however, like stumbling upon paperwork you need to deal with but would rather not—2020 Tax Forms; healthcare directives; baffling product registration instructions—and facing the eternal conundrum of Save or Toss?

A confession: I am a fanatic recipe collector, to the extent that I'm convinced well meaning friends would stage an intervention if they actually knew the depths of my obsession.

I once had 80 cookbooks and an entire four-drawer file cabinet stuffed with saved recipes, but I purged this stockpile before a move to Texas six years ago. Yet here I am, once again breaking into a flop sweat just thinking about the new piles of magazine clippings and internet printouts crying out for merging, purging, sorting, and filing—and me with no one to cook for in the foreseeable future.

One thing is certain, those cube-shaped, stiff fabric containers are dangerous. Once you corral everything in your various to-do stacks within sleek little grey tweed bins, they look so cute and tidy that you're tempted to declare, mission accomplished! As I said, dangerous.

But when a sense of manageability is your goal, false security can be a comforting state of mind. For now, I will keep Organize Bin Contents as a rollover entry on my electronic calendar until I have mastered the beast. Or until I get the "all clear" to resume normal life and my priorities fall back into place.

Wonder which will come first . . .