You turned sixty and had no one living to look up. Had you really scaled the mountain, reached the top of a male profession only to be told to retreat to quiet summers on your lake front porch in Michigan. During sleepless nights as you pulled at what little hair you had bleached Hollywood spun gold, you knew you had to maneuver into a way to get out. Out of the feckless days which left you breathless, out of the hours of waiting for the perfect life script to call you for casting, out of the tedium of people thinking you were still on the ladder up and in their way, while in reality, you were floating on air.