After adjusting the straps, I pull my newest purse over my head and position it in the cross body position. My right hand strokes the bag; it is effortless to reach cellphone, keys, or dog treats.

Like a runway model, I slouch and check myself in the full-length mirror. With satisfaction similar to a Tinder match, I announce to my image, "This is the one."

This morning I heard the toaster pop out my English Muffin half, but when I returned to pluck it out, there was no muffin to be found.

Where could it have gone? Was it possible for it to make an Olympic-size leap and land somewhere on my kitchen floor? Peering around the pretend tiles, I saw bits of lettuce, a few dog treats, crumpled plastic wrap that had escaped bowls they were supposed to be protecting, but no regal English Muffin.

Down on my knees, I peered into the gap between the counter that held the toaster and its neighboring GE refrigerator, and sure enough, the toasted half muffin, which I imagined thumbing its crumbs at me, was lounging in the space.

For nearly a year, my stay-at-home wardrobe has been a t-shirt and stretch waistband leggings. My face matched the unfussy comfort of my clothing. Pre-pandemic, its valentine shape had daily been enhanced with at least 10 small tubes, pots, and brushes of various shades. But when masks became mandated, I elected to leave the part uncovered also muted, with wrinkles and natural shadings, including under eye pouches.