How to find a fellow (spirit)

Since I turned just a little bit older than 40, I’ve gotten supernaturally good, if I do say so myself, at judging the age of other women. Or maybe it’s just that I can spot people who look just like me. Older, I’m not sure. Younger … I don’t really want to talk about it.

There’s an art to finding us. Or maybe it’s a science: pattern recognition. First, look for the forehead lines — some in the wide ladder from temple to temple that make it look like she’s a perpetual skeptic, some the narrow eleven that balances above her nose, hinting at pinching pain that, let’s face it, may or may not be real by age 40. (It probably is, because life.)

Then there are the just-a-few-too-many sun freckles. And/or the hair that turned wild when she wasn’t looking and we still haven’t figured out how to tame without the help of salon “treatments” than probably involve formaldehyde.

But mostly, there’s the stare — the long stare ahead as we dodge carts in the grocery store or navigate O’Hare. We’re thinking about the weight of the world: The divorce, the angry 15-year old, the federal healthcare disaster, how we’re out of cat food at home, whether we’ll die alone. We glance up and lock eyes with each other. We want to fist bump, but we’re too tired and we’re carrying too many thoughts to lift our arms. So we draw up the corners of our lips (often the lipstick has bled) and we nod a little and we feel connected again.