I can safely say bridge would not be involved; I’ve been led to believe most games beyond Pictionary pivot on logic and math savvy, neither of which star in my skill set. Ask me to name who wrote “Moo,” and I’ll spit out Jane Smiley, but trafficking in numbers is a nonstarter. When my husband programmed a seemingly random code into our phone to retrieve messages, I snarled, “Why those numbers?” Another woman might have recognized her wedding date.

Nor would social sports make my cut. My eye-hand coordination ends with typing. If forced to live among a tribe of friends, based on their ability to team up to play tennis, I’d organize a book club.

The one-two punch of my agenda: I’ll decide when I “retire,” along with when I become “old.” If I want to rock long hair into my 90s, I will. Likewise for hanging with friends half my age. I’ll study history, take up painting and in the company of my husband — who in my eyes will always be a shaggy sophomore — go dancing and see every art-house film and as many plays as we can afford. (Damn you, Broadway, for tickets that cost what we paid for our first car.) We’ll travel because I don’t want to be the last American to visit Reykjavik. I’ll take my grandchildren to museums, throw parties and get out the vote, lest my life be one big orgy of me time.

But all of this needs to fit around my nonretirement retirement: work. Some sidelined women can afford to be ladies of leisure and happily fulfill conventional expectations, finding joy at gardening clubs and golf courses. The rest of us? Hello, darkness, my old friend. Got Lexapro? The old saw goes that on a deathbed nobody wishes they’d spent more time at the office, but I suspect many women, whose careers stop prematurely, do. Work is where we get our superpowers and not incidentally, our income. How else will we afford a ticket to Iceland?

My aunt’s centenarian club is far from exclusive. About 55,000 Americans are at least 100, and according to census data, they’re almost all female. After jobs end, the fortunate among us may find ourselves with 40 or 50 years looming. In the world I imagine, benefit-free self-employment, endless leisure or poverty won’t be the only options. Inevitable “30 Under 30” lists (“Erin Epstein, 26, has created an app to draft Meryl for president”) will be replaced by reports of “60 After 60,” chockablock with inspiration.

But women can’t just imagine change. They need to speak up about this issue, just as female managers should think about hiring women the age of their mother. Today’s 30- and 40-somethings can’t “lean in” forever. If they don’t address embedded ageism, they’ll blink, pass 50, and possibly see their success evaporate faster than a boss can say, “Sorry, we’re going in another direction.” A younger direction.