As I rushed up the subway stairs to the platform of the uptown 1 train, a bag slung over my shoulder with the days reading: The New York Times, BOMB, Interview, Dance International, Paris Vogue…plus 3 different books I’m aiming to get through by the end of the month, I am slowed by a woman walking like she’s stepping through quicksand. She isn’t old, but she looks worn. She looks exactly how my insides feel. I turn towards her face…stunned…she must be only forty, but her eyes are vacant, her hair is frayed…she sighs…slow step after slow step. I saw in her movement the lost fight in her. The loneliness.  My heart pings and shrivels in the instant I realize that could be me one day. I feel my dark circles deepening…my wrinkles creasing….perhaps a few gray hairs have sprouted…my steps get slower….my bag feels as heavy as it is for once. A momentary panic sets: THAT CANNOT HAPPEN TO ME. I must always hope that there is something out there…something worth the daily struggle…some place….some person….something worthy of  far more than a few quick steps up the stairs to the subway.