Sex and the City made it seem like growing old single in New York City would be the worst thing that could ever happen to a girl. But Elizabeth Goodyear, the 101-year-old woman that the Times introduces us to today, seems to be doing just swell. Sure, she’s confined to her Murray Hill walk-up. But she has no cats, and for years now she’s been visited by bevy of youngish yoga instructors, introduced to her by a neighbor. They read her novels; she tells them stories about getting plastered on apricot brandy during Prohibition and dancing with Martha Graham. And, at 101, she’s totally healthy; the only medications she takes are Tylenol and B-12. This is probably because she subsists on the staples of life:
A couple of weeks after her 101st birthday, her refrigerator contained five bottles of Champagne and dark chocolate in truffle and bar forms.
Of course, that’s probably not her only secret to eternal life. Her rent is also $69 a month. If ours were that low, we’d stick around as long as possible, too.