She was thirty-one. But in spite of violent reactions to most of the aspects of living, getting older didn't seem to bother her. "I was scared of thirty," she said, "because—you know; I told you once—my mother kept warning me I'd be dead by then. But the fact is, I'm looking forward to growing up, if you know what I mean. Actually, I've always wanted to be forty. Forty is so mellow, so mature. My fantasy is that on that day I'll get up real early in the morning and everything will be different. I'll just suddenly—know who I am, or something!" "You don't believe half the things you say," I told her. "Well, of course I don't!" she said. "What am I—gullible?" Marc gave her an irregular-shaped package wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with a length of fishing line. I watched with a mixture of awe and incredulity as she opened it. It contained a small spiral notebook, a bunch of colored rubber bands, a box of brass-plated paper clips, a tin of Band-Aids, a jar of caviar, a tiny potted cactus plant, a card of safety pins, a packet of six pocket combs, three bottle caps, and two rolls of Kodachrome film to be shot in Bermuda.
