Margaret Atwood’s high school year book, 1957.
(From Torontoist)

I’m still at the point where I can’t even imagine fifty-years. My equivalent of this photo (fifty years after graduating from high school) is the year 2043, by which time I hope the world will be unbelievably different in a good way. Bush and Co will long be dead, there will be peace in the mid east, the most of the Boomers will be cremated ash, except for those few trillionaires who insist on injecting themselves with all sorts of weird shit to stay alive for-ever (and they will probably have a whole television station devoted to the 1960s, Woodstock, Bob Dylan, fast machines, and the emotional aftermath of the Vietnam War, and the fact that they’re all still alive and how they’re ‘revolutionizing the centenarian years’).