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  • My friend who, at 80, still gives public talks and serves on boards tells me: “Every year I feel more and more invisible. It’s the strangest thing, becoming invisible.”

    I flash back to when I lived in Brooklyn in a studio apartment overlooking 7th Avenue. For hours a day the old woman across the street in a third-floor apartment sat at her window watching the world below. She wore a man’s white undershirt and smoked cigarettes, blowing the smoke out the window.

    When I saw her at the bakery she was wearing a dress, hose, pumps, gloves and a hat.
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