I adore the sixties. Oh, sure, lots of people say that -- it's real fashionable now, what with the Boomers aging and the Rolling Stones making their - what? - seven millionth farewell tour. We celebrate all the hairdos and the pot smoking and... well, everything, right? But that's not me. I really adore the sixties. For me, life stopped in 1966, and I refuse to allow it to move ahead even one year. Father Time was furious, of course, but I was adamant, and finally we had to come to a sort of agreement. He'd let me live forever in 1966, but at the same time I'd continue to live forward as well. So I've been here for, well, close to forty years now. It's hard to explain. See, I get up in the morning, and I open the newspaper, and it's July 1, 1966. It's sunny outside the kitchen window, and the patina on my stainless steel dinette set gleams in the morning light. I listen to the latest 45 from the Beach Boys on my transistor radio while I defrost my Cycla-matic Frigidaire. My brand new Ford Falcon sits bright and shiny in the driveway, as I pull on a copy of a Rudy Geinrich dress I made myself from a photo I saw in the latest issue of Vogue. I pack a light lunch and open the door -- -- and it's a cold, miserable February day in 2020. The skies are grey, and there's a nasty wind, and I have to walk carefully so I dont get my runners wet. I drive my beat-up Falcon to the office, where I spend the day working at a computer and hating every moment of it. My boss threatens me with overtime again, since he cant get any of the young things to stay after five, and he figures an old woman near retirement probably needs all the spare cash she can get. But I refuse, and he yells at me so much I have to take an extra dose of my heart medication just to finish out the day. I cant wait to get in my rust bucket of a car and drive home so that when I walk through the door -- -- the black and white TV flickers, and Ed Sullivan has just come on. I adjust the aerial to get the best reception possible, then make a TV dinner and sit in front of the television, watching summer reruns of my favourite shows: Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie, and this new thing called Star Trek. Some nights, my mother calls, worried that I'm still single at 22, and I laughingly tell her not to worry. I'm a liberated woman, and I'll get married when the right man comes along. Then, at 10PM, I wind the clock and set the alarm for six, and I sleep, and I dream. Paul (sometimes Ringo) whisks me away to England, and the Queen and her little son Charles invite me to tea. He's so adorable.