In my closet are two pairs of black boots, one knee-high and the other ankle-height. Above them hang trousers, skirts, dresses and sweaters — seldom worn now.

On my dressing table four long pendant necklaces gather dust. A clutch of earrings do the same. A watch sits by them, still ticking but looking forlorn. And then there’s the perfume bottle, which has scarcely been touched these past few weeks.

These are the accoutrements of my public persona, the things I don’t bother with when I’m at home. Now it’s yoga pants and sweatshirts, hair pulled back in clips.

It’s comfortable, it’s fun (for a while). But that other life had value, too. And now it seems … far away.