Old.

What will we look like when we get old?

Will we look the way we remember looking? At some age, does the mirror become less of a physical reality and more of an idea? Will nothing change but everything feel like it has, or will everything be altered and we still feel like we're walking around with 25-year-old legs, or will it be a little of this, a little of that, 25-year-old legs carrying a 50-year-old torso with 75-year-old breasts and a brain that's half 19 one-third 37 one-eighth 52 and the rest is not able to be quantified by someone who hasn't Been There.

What will our husbands and wives think? Will we repulse them a little more each day? Will they spend the first fifteen minutes of every morning suppressing their gag reflex? Or will they not even notice? Will we be to them as divas, as heartthrobs, as even before the first day they met us, preserved in the amber of their passion for our bodies and minds? Which of these eventualities would be more devastating?

Will we cry at night, hugging ourselves, fantasizing about the costume we used to wear?

Will we sleep like babies, content in the knowledge that everything is as alien as it's ever going to get?

Will I fit into the same clothes?

Will I fit into the same skin?

Will I fit into me?

Will anyone notice, or will it all just slide by, inexorably, unnoticeable, and if the latter, would that really be such a bad thing? Not to be noticed, not to be noted, just to happen.