Wake up, get out of bed, drag a comb across my head.

It’s a shower-free day. Even in sweatpants and an old T-shirt I look pretty good, right? But self-quarantining is no excuse for looking like a slob. I dress like it’s a normal workday and as if I’m going to the office. Jeans and a Long Beach Fire Department Fireboat 15 T-shirt that firefighter Brian Fisk gave me under the condition that I not tell anyone where I got it. I will take that secret to my grave.

Breakfast. One of the Top Three meals of the day. In the days of old when I would go to work at the plant, I rarely ate breakfast, telling myself I’m not hungry now, therefore I will never be hungry. I seldom even packed a lunch. God keeps his eye on the sparrow. Somehow, when I need food, it will come.

But isolated at home, making breakfast and eating are activities that chisel away at the boredom, so not only do I have breakfast, but it’s typically a healthy one, with a delightful fresh fruit medley and some toast or cereal. Occasionally a side order of scrambled eggs smothered in Cholula.

Then it’s off to the internet to check on how bad a hit the country and the world has taken since I went to bed. I begin to feel like I’m part of the problem, because Fox folks like Lou Dobbs and Sean Hannity continue to blame “the left-wing media” for “playing up fears of the coronavirus,” and causing panic, before they dutifully and with no discernible trace of irony report the fact that  17 states now have more than 1,000 cases, pushing the U.S. total past 104,000, so, we’re No. 1, looking at Italy, China and Spain angrily shaking their fists at us in our rearview mirror.

Next, I can no longer avoid the inevitable and I have to write another installment of the Quarantine Chronicles, and today’s is Day 13. How many ways can I write about sitting at home? Well, it depends on what happens. Today, it’s a replenishment of supplies. My wife, who is an essential worker, is free to frolic outdoors, and this morning she got up early to take advantage of one of the few benefits of not getting any younger: Because of her fortunate birth date, she gets to shop an hour earlier than whippersnappers, and she comes home with plunder and booty from Ralphs, including a package of toilet paper, a dozen eggs, butter, bread, spaghetti, antibacterial hand wipes, Oreos, Kleenex and Spam (which has become, for some reason, the toilet paper of the canned food aisle). So, I guess I could write about privilege in the age of coronavirus, but I think I’ve already amply established that.

But forget about me: My dogs Jasper and Annie are living like one-percenters gnawing on dried animal parts and Milk Bones in the window seat in the living room, and you haven’t seen get-off-my-lawn grouchiness until you’ve watched my dogs explode with rage anytime someone has the gall to stroll in front of the house. And it’s happening with greater frequency as more people are stuck at home and needing to get some fresh air, of which there is apparently an abundance in front of our house.

Eventually, I figure out something to write, and then I write it, between editing other stories written by the crack crew at the Post. On a good day, they’ll FaceTime me for a few minutes and all is well in my little world for a few moments.

Near the end of the day it suddenly becomes cocktail hour, a tradition that’s somehow immune to the new virus, and we settle in to start to watch the news, but damn, have you seen the news lately? So we seek a semblance of solace in old episodes of “Shark Tank,” where, unfortunately, a couple of women are pitching a product called Fur. They tell the Sharks, “You know, everybody pays all their attention to the hair on their head, and they give no care to their pubic hair.”

And, for that reason, I’m out.

But I Googled the product and it’s apparently selling well, so what do the Sharks and I know (except for the shrewd Queen of QVC Lori Greiner who popped for $500,000 for 8% of the company).

The day ends like it always does, with an hour or two of binge-watching — there’s a new season of Netflix’s “Ozark” out, which is surely a cure for coronavirus-induced boredom, followed by an hour in bed reading “The Library Book,” by Susan Orlean, because my willowy editor told me to and I remain,

Your obedient servant,

Tim Grobaty

PS: Everybody, send me stories and stuff about how you’re grappling with life in isolation, at [email protected], or @grobaty on Twitter and Facebook.