35,000 feet in the air. You never know what's going to happen.

Last Sunday, I was flying from Houston to Charlotte after competing at the NCAA Division III Swimming Championships. Our team of eight women got seventh overall in the nation! As a freshman, I couldn't be happier to just be there.

I sat down at seat 8B, sent a few Snapchats, scrolled through Snap stories, texted a couple of friends, and put in my earbuds. The flight attendant went through the usual spiel of "The captain has turned on the 'fasten seat belt' sign. If you haven't already done so, please stow your carry-on baggage under the seat in front of you... [blah, blah, blah]... If you are seated next to an emergency exit, please read carefully the special instructions card... an oxygen mask will automatically appear in front of you... Thanks for flying American, and have a great flight."

The woman sitting in the window seat next to me was older and wearing a white coat, several rings, a beige blouse, dark pants, and faintly pink lipstick. The flight attendant repeatedly came by and asked if she needed anything. She looked over to me and smiled shyly and I returned the smile. She pulled out a weathered journal and writes in large, cursive letters.

We were up in the air, the seat belt sign had turned off, and the attendants began to bring their clanky drink trays down the aisle. After the elderly woman went to the restroom and comes back, she apologized for having me get up so she could return to her seat, and I told her not to worry at all. Then she asked me my name.

"I'm Laura and yours?"

"Patricia but you can call me Pat. Nice to meet you," she extended her hand. "What school do you go to?"

"Washington and Lee University." After noticing she didn't recognize the name, I added, "It's a small liberal arts college in Virginia."

"That's wonderful!" She had a big smile on her face. "I'm just coming back from my brother's birthday. He turned 100 yesterday!"

"Wow! I don't know anybody who has lived that long."

"Well, if you don't smoke, exercise, and have good genes, you're good to go. That's the big secret. I'm ninety five," she said proudly.

"Ninety five? Wow, that's really impressive."

I didn't know what else to say. Small talk has never been my thing. The flight attendant brought the Biscotti cookies and soda, and I was about to listen to music when she asked, "What do you want to do when you grow up?"

Okay, first of all, I'm 18. I'm an adult already. I have lofty dreams obviously, but I didn't want to be pretentious or anything.

"I'm interested in physics, and I like swimming and writing, so it would be cool to be a researcher. I'm not sure. I just want to be happy."

I could tell by her face that I didn't quite give the answer she wanted. "Wow physics, you must be really smart. That is what my husband liked he was an engineer."

"Oh cool! What did you do?"

"Well back in the day, it wasn't common for women to work. We just didn't think much of it. It was the time back then. I wish I finished getting my college degree in Texas, but that's the way it goes. I was an m-r-s most of the time."

I'm a little disheartened. Since she asked me one of the typical, intergenerational life questions, I asked, "What has been your greatest memory in life?"

"During World War II, they needed people to work in factories, and my husband was at war flying planes in the European Theatre, so my friend and I decided to leave our lives in San Antonio to work in a factory forty five miles away. Yeah, we were the first Rosie the Riveters!"

Pat opens up her weathered journal, and at the front flap, there are several pictures. She pulls out a black and white photo of her and her friend wearing goggles, denim factory attire and boots standing in front of a dark, smokey building.

I was shook. The person next to me was one of the first Rosie the Riveters.

I told her I dressed up as Rosie the Riveter for my high school's prom (an "America"-themed costume party), even though that was nowhere near as cool as being one of the actual Rosie the Riveters. I showed her a quick picture from my phone.

We looked out the window, and the plane continued to fly over a blanket of white clouds. I smiled. She smiled. A pause in the conversation.

Pat sighed, looked at me in the eye, and said, "This will probably be my last flight."

She continued. "I'm flying to Charlotte to live with my grandson. It's about that time where it's difficult to live alone. But you seem to have such a great life ahead of you. Look at all where I have been."

She pulled out more pictures from the weathered journal. She went to Australia, Japan, South Africa, all over the United States, places in Europe. Some images are recent; others from earlier decades. I can only hope to have her sense of adventure when I'm her age.

The plane began its descent and broke through the sheet of fluffy clouds. I looked around and saw people napping, reading magazines, doing crossword puzzles. The seat belt sign turned on. Pat and I looked out the window, watching small cars and trucks race across highways, continuing their everyday lives. Slowly, we descended to do the same.