Years ago, right after my divorce, I was in therapy trying to sort out my "junk." I clearly remember my therapist asking me at one point, "How old do you see yourself living to?" And I honestly couldn't give her an answer. Not that I saw myself dying at a young age, but looking that far ahead was like peering down a dim, misty tunnel.
Today, I still can't come up with an "age" that I see myself living to, but I do believe it'll be old. Liver-spotted, grey-haired old. This belief comes from encounters I've had with various elderly women over the years. I've co-opted physical "pieces" of these women and have composited them into how I see "me" someday. I remember the lovely slender wrist of a woman at the local gas station/mini-mart I frequent. She was paying for a cup of coffee. She had beautifully manicured hands, with bright red fingernails. On her wrist was a chunky, expensive gold charm bracelet. I remember another woman with straight, silver-grey hair, cut in an adorable chin-length bob. I remember another woman walking in the evenings with her husband. I don't mean strolling, either. Fast fitness walking. She had a lovely, trim figure and looked quite fit in her track suit.
What prompted this post? A casual glance down at my freshly manicured, bright red fingernails. A gold bracelet clatters against the keyboard as I type. Oh, and I've got some sort of exercise scheduled for tonight.
So there I am, someday. Doesn't sound bad to me, at all.