When I’m 90, I want to dance the mambo at the Harvest Moon Ball.
I’ll sip wine and eat flourless chocolate cake.
When I’m 90, I want to explain earnestly to new friends I’ve met on the dance floor that you start to feel old when you’re 86 or 87. I want to be startled when they laugh.
I want to be spiffy when I hit my 10th decade, to dress sharply with crisp creases and tasteful accessories.
When I’m 90, I won’t brag. I’ll tuck away my stories like treasured heirlooms, pull them out without embellishment and only upon request. If I’m part of a greatest generation, you won’t hear it from me.
I want to look back at my children, raised with love and discipline, and call them friends. I’ll laugh at the stories I’d hoped I would.
When I’m 90, I want to stand taller than my height, carry my own luggage and offer a firm handshake. I’ll watch sunrises and moon shadows and cat nap in between.
When I’m 90 I want to make new friends with seasoned reporters and race car drivers; I’ll chat with teen-aged waiters and retired band leaders.
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