For the past few years I’ve become  used to being the oldest person in the room.  Going back to grad school at 50 was fun and exciting and stressful and exhilarating all at the same time, but I was almost always the oldest person within sight, in study groups, in classrooms, sometimes even on the bus!  And while working in the library I was often older than the other employees.   And now, back in the mortgage industry I’m for sure the oldest person in my group.  It’s just something that I take for granted now after four years.

But last night I had dinner with a group of women to discuss a book and most of them were my age or slightly older.  It was a lovely evening, the discussion one I could relate to; talking about the things we’ve noticed about ourselves since we turned 50.  It was comforting to know that other women are going through the same things, noticing the ways our hands, hair and bodies are adjusting to five or more decades of life.

Not having to be hip or young or technically advanced, not to talk about the latest technical gadget or social networking site – that was all comforting.  Peaceful even.   Of course some of that warm fuzzy feeling came from the three or four bottles of wine we shared.

Giggle.