Full disclosure: That picture above is not me. I would NEVER put that ugly-ass rug in my home.

Otherwise, it could be me. In another lifetime. I mean, I work out, but no, not in sexy leggings and a midriff that shows off my tats (I don't have tats), nor do I have long, flowing curls that would get caught under my hands when I do the downward dog.

Who are we kidding? As I've said before, pumping iron at 80 is not like pumping iron at 79, but at least it's pumping iron. If only I could pump iron at the gym right now.

I picked that photo because it was the only one I could find that represented my dilemma, the need to exercise in my small, one-bedroom apartment with no deck or back yard.

I just read a Medium-sponsored article in their new coronavirus blog about the need to get outside and exercise. Like we all live lives that allow us to go outside in this crisis.

Try running, the writer said. Like the only people in the world who like to move their bootys look like the model in the picture above.

Some of us only have inner-beauty but the outside wreck we haul around every day, a mere shadow of our former glory, is alive and ticking. We need to exercise our old bag of bones. Herein lies my problem.

I would be extremely vulnerable to the virus should I catch it because of my age and some compromised lung issues. So, I have decided to stop joking about being a born-again hermit and actually live like one for the duration. Fortunately for me, I have wonderful neighbors in my building who are getting my mail, my groceries, and taking the trash I put outside my door down to the bins. I'm doing my laundry in my sink and don't have to put my nose outside my door, but I do stick it out the window when it isn't raining for some fresh air.

I'm on NextDoor, social media, texting, Skyping, FaceTiming and emailing more than ever. I'm not depressed and have Christmas lights, a heart, my 9/11 flag, and Hi in my window to acknowledge other apartment dwellers in San Francisco, a neighborly movement started on NextDoor so we can salute each other in isolation.

I live on the fourth floor and don't trust the elevators. While I'm more than capable of walking up many flights of stairs, walking down is risky on my knees. The last thing I need right now is to have one of them "go out" and require surgery. It's happened five times before. The next time could require a replacement. I don't want that ever, but not now. All bolstering my decision to isolate myself.

So, without access to the outside world, I must exercise in the confines of my apartment. As you listen to my sad tale, you'd think I was an invalid, confined to my bed. Hardly, I'm very healthy, but my digs are relatively small. I never intended to spend the rest of my life here when I signed a year's lease 27 years ago.

I thought I'd hunker down until I sorted some things out and move on, certainly away from all the street noise I discovered after I unpacked. And then things happened. As they do. So I'm stuck here, which has had it's ups and downs. Mostly, as I've grown older, ups. Rent control. An elevator. Central location with free public transit right outside my door.

But the lack of access to the outside world when you are confined to isolation from a deadly virus is a definite negative. Especially if you're a bookish person as I am. Someone not in their body, shall we say. I need lots of motivation to exercise, like the draw of my daily two-mile walk, or my gym, one of my happy places.

While I'd love to move my apartment to a quieter street, tack on an extra bedroom, an updated kitchen, and a deck or patio, I actually love my apartment. People draw a breath when they enter because it's really quite lovely. The art work, furnishings, and all that. So when I'm here, I cocoon as they say. I sit at my computer, on my couch, I sprawl on my bed in front of one of my two TVs, usually with my iPad, iPhone, or laptop to read, write, or scroll through the internet. I love it. I'm so happy here.

But it's not where I work out. I have never confused my living room faux painted in pinks with rose brocade fabrics on the furniture and my expensive silk Persian rug with the weight room at the gym.

Yes, I have a full-length mirror where I could check my form. But it's on the doors of my antique German armoire that reflects my down-pillowed sofa I've had for almost fifty years and the enormous print of Renoir's Clown, a show-stopper if I've ever seen one. Hardly a space to get all sweaty and muscle-bound.

Yet, I must, to keep up my cardiovascular and mental health. And somehow, I've squirreled away a bit of work-out equipment. I have some wrist weights, a gallon jug of water and an economy-size container of laundry detergent, which I can use as kettle bells or goblet weights.

I have a collection of DVDs for Zumba routines, yoga sessions, various stretches and fitness routines, all pristine, mostly unused condition — I did try the Zumba but it gave me a sprained ankle some years ago. And have I mentioned my own dance routine, my playlist for the Isolation Rag?

The only thing that's missing from this sad excuse for a home gym is motivation.

Every morning I wake up and plan my day. Exercise is always on my agenda. I do little things. Some weights, a plank or two. A 6-minute routine on a yoga site. But nothing sustained to get my heart rate pumping. I need accountability like I don't for writing.

Some of my writer friends have trouble getting words on the page every day. That's never my problem. I need accountability to get my butt moving.

I set timers, reminders, and then I ignore them. Who's looking? I can cheat all I want. At the gym, the other gym rats inspire me. I want to look buffed like they do, I want to lift the weights they do, or ride the bike as many minutes, or do as many reps. I feed off the work out energy. On my walks, I could go forever some days. At home, I want to sit and stare out the window, or sit and do my work, or just sit at my computer and waste time.

So I need some help here, but not the kind everybody's talking about. We have a wonderful Help The Seniors movement in the country right now. Everybody's looking out for us, getting our mail, our milk, keeping in touch.

That's not my problem. Please, would someone do the warrior pose with me?

Virtually, speaking? I need someone to FaceTime with me while they Peleton their ass off, and I stick my Zumba DVD in my computer and go at my own speed. The point is, it would feel like a class. Like I couldn't quit until my partner did. We'd have a date to show up at the same time. It could be a guy, a kid, an oldster like me, someone on the other side of the world. It doesn't matter.

I mean, what's the point of having social media, if we can't be social with our media and save our lives at the same time. Anybody with me?

Yes, we're all in this together, and we'll get through this together, but really, some things we really can do together. And for me, I need you to do them with me.

You don't have to wear fancy work out clothes. I'm declaring a moratorium on getting dressed up for Skype calls during the pandemic. Just grab your water bottle and ping me.

I'm an editor and writer on Medium with Top Writer status in several categories. I'm also an editor for the publication, Rogues Gallery. I've published 55 titles on Amazon and edit for private clients. If you'd like to hire me as your editor for fiction, non-fiction, or business writing, please contact me here. If you'd like to read more of my work on Medium, click here to sign up for my newsletter. I'll make sure you don't miss a word. Thank you for reading.