I have no desire to look like a 22-year-old—or at least a simulacrum of one—but the idea of being the best possible version of 50 is a heady one.
The hell with it. I’m taking the plunge. I have no desire to look like a 22-year-old—or at least a simulacrum of one—but the idea of being the best possible version of 50 is a heady one. I speed-dial the doctor and tell her that yes, absolutely, I’ll give her a year of my outer, 50-year-old life. And so it begins.