When I'm 72

I was understandably upset when I read about this yesterday, the story of Andrew Anthos, a 72-year-old man who was beaten with a pipe on his way home from the library. The thing that makes this stand out from other hate crimes, as much as that is possible, is the man's age.
As much as I would like to think that when I'm 72 I'll be in a wheelchair, drunk the entire time I'm awake, on all kinds of meds, and constantly grabbing the asses of all the nurses that will be assisting me in my considerably large post-retirement home, I know that will not be the case.
Odds are, I will be living in an apartment. I will be traveling to the library often, as I do now. I will be taking the bus. And odds are I'll be alone. I'm not sure how this will affect me in the long run. It probably won't. But if it does, I hope it is in a way that spurs me into action and prepares me for anything, but does not consume me with fear and continue to add to my defensive wall that I've been building for years.
More realistically, when I'm 72, there won't be libraries, there won't be buses, and I'll be dead.