 
As I sit at a red light, I watch in my rear-view mirror as the recently washed & waxed, immaculate topaz-green Grand Prix inches up, almost touching my rear bumper. The driver is probably in her 50s, but her overpowering wrinkles make her look much older. Her eyesockets are deep grey bowls with squinty eyes at the bottom. Years of trying to dye grey hairs into invisibility has turned her hair some strange hue, probably green, which she covers up with a Big-Birdish yellow. The driver takes a long drag off the cigarette dangling from her lips. Glowing ashes tumble into her lap, but she's too distracted by a frantic search through her purse and doesn't notice. Her extraordinarilyWatching her rummage through her belongings makes me snicker at first, but suddenly I have a flash of horror -- could that be ME several years down the road? No, it's not possible. Or - will I find myself someday pissed that I lost my tip card in my purse while on my way to have coffee with the girls? Will I be uncomfortable because my sagging breasts don't fit into my vintage-1978 bra anymore? How can I prevent my life from turning into an endless string of bingo games & watching talk shows while my husband dozes on the couch?
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