Yesterday, I took my son, Owen, to lunch after his dermatology appointment. It was a rare weekday treat—just the two of us, with enough time to sit down, enjoy a meal, and chat before he had to be back at school. We chose Olympia, a local favorite, not just because the food is good, but because it feels like home. It’s the kind of place where you always know someone, where the waitresses recognize you and where the owner, Pete—who also happens to be Owen’s football coach—buzzes around, refilling coffee cups and checking in on regulars.
As we settled into our booth, I took in the familiar hum of the restaurant—the clinking of coffee mugs, the murmur of conversation, the easy rhythm of a place where people have gathered for years. And then, across the aisle, I noticed three elderly women sitting together.
They were probably in their seventies, dressed in the kind of casual comfort that comes with age—soft cardigans, sensible shoes, easy laughter. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, touching on the little things that make up a life: plans for the afternoon, where to find the best sales at Kohl’s, the upcoming visit from grandchildren, the latest community news. It was nothing extraordinary, yet it was everything.
When the waitress asked if they wanted more coffee, they declined. It was time to say their goodbyes. They stood up, embraced, and promised to do it again.
“You have to join us again—we hardly see you!”
“Yes, I should do that. Let me know when you’ll go to lunch again.”
“We’re here every Tuesday,” one of them said with a knowing smile. “Keeps us busy in our retirement years.”
And just like that, I saw my future. I saw Jamie and Katie sitting across from me in 25 years, our hair graying, our faces softened by time but still recognizable to one another. I imagined us sharing updates about our children and, perhaps, our grandchildren. Maybe we’d vent about our husbands driving us crazy in their old age—or maybe, by then, some of us would be navigating widowhood. We’d talk about doctor’s appointments, books we’re reading, the latest deals at our favorite stores. The topics would change, but the comfort of friendship wouldn’t.
The thought made my eyes misty.
So much of adulthood is spent in the rush of responsibilities—work, kids, errands, obligations. It’s easy to assume friendships will always be there, waiting, but the truth is, if we don’t tend to them, they fade. Watching those women, I realized how important it is to nurture the friendships I have now—to make time, to stay connected, to carve out spaces for laughter and conversation. Because when the noise of career and parenting quiets, when the days stretch out in retirement, those friendships will be the tether that keeps us grounded.
As the ladies parted ways, I smiled to myself. Getting older isn’t going to be so bad. Not if we have friends waiting for us every Tuesday at lunch.
Hey Dana Jane 