In my 90s

I‘ll train year round to run marathons. Then charter a hot balloon and soar above the great planes with my man and our grandkids.

I‘ll own the most energy efficient and safe grandpa car around town, but on Sunday I’ll take out the classic Cadillac and cruise around with the top down. My hair will have gone from brown to gray to white, but my mind will stay sharp.

We’ll live in a Spanish style villa with a vast central courtyard. In the mornings I’ll tend to the tropical garden then meditate as I gaze at the passionfruit and palm trees. Some days we’ll be down at the lake on our houseboat, but spend most of the day out on the jet skis.

The grandkids will finally convince me to skydive, and I’ll wonder why I didn’t try it earlier. And when the rapper that I ghostwrite for goes triple platinum, I might finally have the dough to take the whole family on a space cruise. They’re getting less expensive every year.

I’ll have observed my partners culinary expertise long enough that I’ll surprise and even impress him when he comes home from throwing knives to find me making his special tacos with handmade tortillas.

I’ll write every night, and proudly display the novels, short story collections and screenplay credits that I’ve acquired.

The mailbox will fill up with former members of the non profit art center I founded; invites to gallery openings and awards ceremonies, marriage and birth announcements. I’ll still instruct neighborhood paint nights and give generously.