There are some people who are old at forty and some who are young at seventy. The woman who I am thinking of is old in her early sixties. She has a pronounced dowager's hump; I swear it is bigger than it was this spring. Her nose appears to be growing, too. She dyes her coarse, long hair a rich brown, and her voice always sounds surprisingly chipper as she chirps "I hope you have a pleasant day!"
In thirty years will I be like her? Will I live among privileged undergraduates and poor graduate students in inexpensive housing? Will I, Alice Koller-like, hustle after fixed-term job after fixed-term job, earning just enough to keep off the streets most of the time? How will I be when I have lost all pretense to physical beauty? Will I be an object of gentle pity? Can I avoid that?
Will there be for me anyone on whom I can call when I am sick or weak? Can I do anything about that now--can I become the kind of person for whom community is a real, strong, pulsing part of life?
Will I regret, in thirty years, all the time I've spent looking for the perfect dress for my still reasonably-youthful body? Will I be irritated then with my current self for having worried over my most dramatic curves?
What will matter when my hair grows thin and my body grows slack?
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