My neck R-E-A-L-L-Y hurts me today, and, no, it's not from having raped mr. zippy last night.

I feel about 60 w/ this sort of pain. So, what will it feel like when I'm 60?

A dozen years ago, if anyone had asked, I would have told them I didn't expect to ever see 60. I fully expected to die by 30. That's what the hospital told me when they released me from the Navy and sent me on my way. "Go home, lead a quiet life, be content with what you have, for you probably won't live past thirty."

I did not go home that day. Instead, I went directly to the nearest bar, had three vodka martinis and wrote a letter to my mother on a cocktail napkin. Apologizing for the slur in my script, but knowing she'd understand with a wink, I scribbled out how queer it felt to be sitting in a uniform that was no longer mine, on the edge between that which was and that which might be, and not a clue how to move toward safety.

Then I took a cab, which is how I arrived, and found my way to the nearest hotel, where I slept it off. I awoke to a morning that had no bugler, that had no perfect corners to fold, no crisp lines to starch into my threads, no boondockers to buff with cotton torn from tampons, no senior enlisted checking my gig line, no officer checking my salute. Just the rise and shine of the Florida day beating down through my open window. I'd slept in my uniform, and found housekeeping staring at me through the unveiled glass, and moving away quickly as I blinked my way into cognizance, the clang of her cart full of toiletries and towels signalling her pace down the balcony to the next room awaiting her with emptiness.