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The Surprising Joy of Cultivating Female Friendships in Middle Age
We don’t judge. We have no agenda. We’ve experienced enough to know how fragile this is.
On Wednesday night, we agree to meet at my house for a game of Scrabble. I set out a snack spread — gluten-free crackers, cotton candy grapes, raw veggies and dip, and an assortment of cheese. Two unopened bottles of wine, one red and one white, await my attention.
Babs arrives first, clutching her hip and asking for an ice pack. “Bursitis,” she says, waving away my concern. When I ask my husband to help me cut the Jarlsberg because my hands ache, Babs runs out to her car. She returns with a stick of CBD-infused salve.
“That stuff is great,” says Shari, who has just arrived and is settling in at the table, eyeing the plates of food. I’ve overdone it, but Shari only smiles and begins spreading soft, nameless cheese onto a cracker.
Kristine is the last to arrive. Her thick, curly hair is tinged with auburn highlights. “Your hair looks wonderful,” I say, with a hint of envy. My own dark hair, peppered with a few wiry grays, is pulled back into its usual tight knot.
We’re a group of four women who have three husbands, six nearly grown children, five dogs, four cats, and one gecko between…
