This week my good friend said, “Oh sweetie…” when I said, “I am old.” She takes umbrage with that declarative statement coming from me. She didn’t actually use the word umbrage, but I couldn’t resist. It means, essentially, “Hey, I take exception to that.” My friend is ten years older than me, so she’s a day ahead. I’m in Thursday evening; she’s got her feet to the fire of Friday evening. Neither of us anxious for the weekend. Do we notice the differences? For sure. I have mo

I have a complicated relationship with the self-checkout. It begins with optimism. "This will be quick." It ends with a machine, or should I say, Babs, the president of the HOA (HELPFUL ONLY in APPEARANCE) announcing to the entire grocery store: "Unexpected item in the bagging area." Yes. That would be my dignity. Thank you, Babs. I stare at the screen trying to make eye contact. Nothing. I remove the bananas. I replace the bananas. Babs remains unconvinced. Then comes the in

It’s Thursday. The best day for a conversation. Thursday sits there in the week like a woman who no longer needs to audition for belonging. She’s learned the rhythm of her days and the long cadence of her nights. She weeps, she laughs, often in the same hour, unsteady, but still in step. And she knows she doesn’t dance alone; when she reaches out her hand, her people are there. Which brings me to friendship—real friendship—the kind that doesn’t merely attend the party but sta