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Is it Wine O'clock Yet?

I fell apart during the isolation that Covid demanded. Like the proverbial rug, the dance floor was abruptly pulled out from under me. While my dance shoes collected dust, my acrylics went to hell and my hair extensions fell out. 

I began to live for five o'clock, when the universal cocktail hour made it legal to treat myself to a glass of wine or three. I got hooked on uber-instant-dash food delivery. And just for fun; I woke up one morning with sudden onset vertigo, fell, bruised a few ribs and broke my shoulder. After that, I was so pathetic that I lacked the strength to open my mail. That's when I figured it was time to stop holding back and really commit to feeling sorry for myself. When I had a nervous breakdown in his office, my wide-eyed and terrified doctor handed me a script for antidepressants. The meds did precious little for my fragile state, but don't worry. 

I did gain fifty pounds. 

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