When I am forty nine years old, I will still fit into my size two jeans. I will look hot in my reading glasses. I will know more about wine, history and Latin than I do now. I will be slow to speak and slow to anger. I will finally have stopped biting my nails. I will live in a smallish house built in a clearing in the woods somewhere where there are four seasons, and there will be cats and a big garden and lots of bird feeders everywhere. And I will drive a convertible with the top down and won’t care about what it does to my hair.