I'm pretty sure they would. Lastly, there are young men whose opinion of me I do value. In the same situation, I hope they'd conduct themselves -- not like the loudmouth guy -- but rather like his friend, who showed surprising sensitivity to an old lay-dee like me. When we made eye contact, he said, quietly, without any hint of sarcasm or malice or innuendo: You're still a year-old woman to a year-old guy. At first I ignored it because, being in such close quarters, I was sure one of the guys had just bumped my arm. How did it feel that his friend had not counted me as a viable, desirable woman? And then, seemingly suddenly, our outsides and insides no longer match, like one of those unexceptional movies in which the personality of a year-old girl invades her mother's body. Suddenly, I felt a nudge. So, no matter how much Botox you inject or how many Pilates classes you attend, you're still the age you are and everyone else can see that. Because I have as much chance of understanding craps as I do learning to speak fluent Mandarin, I headed up to our room for bed. The same follows for the elevator guy and me. First, how I see myself isn't necessarily how others see me. I think I just felt a tidal wave of collective amens-to-that from the menopausal contingent. And just as my youthful opinion of the professor's wife had no bearing on her life or self-image, nor does the drunken guy's have any on mine. Second, I remembered how I felt at their age about people my age. Third, I'm happy to be in this phase of life.