You might think I’m doing okay now. You might think I’m fine. You might say, hey, Car, I saw you last week crying into a small black coffee, and you seemed great! You are wrong. Because no matter how good I’m doing now, nothing will compare to when I am sixty-one. 

When I am sixty-one, my hair – the hair that is currently the colour of straw and the consistency of rope, the hair that grows out rather than down – will have thinned out from life experience. It will be long, almost witch-long, and it will be swept up in a neat dancer’s bun at all times. I won’t dye it: who has the time? I will chuckle to my assistant throatily (all of my laughs are throaty, that is important). My hair will be an ashy blonde with sharp grey streaks, streaks the colour of power and the texture of myth.

When I am sixty-one, the only colours I will wear will be as follows: dark black, slate grey, ink blue and occasionally, red. I will wear one piece of jewellery. I will be rail thin, and rotate between three incredibly expensive trouser suits.

When I am sixty-one, I will eat once a day, and that meal will always be at least two hours long. I won’t call it lunch or dinner, I will just tell my assistant that I am going to get something to eat. I will bring along whoever happens to be with me at the time, provided that person is not my assistant. I am fond of my assistant but we do not have a social relationship.

When I am sixty-one, there will be a small selection of medium-priced restaurants that know me well and expect to see me. They will not be tedious or too forward or overly-warm with me, but I will know their names and they will know mine; I will tip generously and fairly, and they will have a precise knowledge of my likes and dislikes. “Perhaps Madame would like to try the marbled venison cutlets?” Madame would.

When I am sixty-one, I will have light crow’s feet and deep laughter lines. I will have a small facial scar. There is a story behind the scar,  and the only people who will here this story are very close friends and occasional lovers. “Your scar is beautiful,” they will say. “You’re right,” I will agree. “It is.”

When I am sixty-one, I will have occasional lovers. There will not be very many of them, and they will never be so old that the whole affair is boring, nor so young that it is considered tacky. But every few years are so, a lover will crop up, and I will enjoy the time we have together. We will not text.

When I am sixty-one, I will text almost no one.

When I am sixty-one,  I will have two ex-husbands, one of whom I remain very close friends with. We have meals together frequently and are generally very supportive of one another’s existence. Every so often he will voice a wistful wish to get back together, or will try to feel my elegant boob. I will raise my eyebrow in caution. “Babe,” I will say “Let’s not make fools of ourselves again.” My other ex-husband is never, ever mentioned in my company.

When I am sixty-one, I will have had one small, elegant brush with cancer.

When I am sixty-one, an up-and-coming female comedienne will cite me as one of her key influences in an interview with Elle magazine. “I know it’s a cliche,” she will say, incorrectly, as it is not a cliche, because my work is still largely unknown to the mainstream. “But her first collection just taught me so much about how to write cleanly.” There will be a small subsequent spike in Amazon sales of my first book, which I will not notice.

When I am sixty-one, no one will be sure how I make a living. When questioned, I will smile wanly, as if I’m not about to bore everyone with the details. “Oh, this and that,” I will say. “It’s all very exciting. I won’t bore you with the details.”

When I am sixty-one, none of my details will be boring.

Please tell me the age you will peak at. You age can be any age, except 61, which is the age I will peak at.