How I Walked Away from Age-Shaming
The party was full of the kind of hip, earthy, intellectual women I admired the most. Sipping warm spiced cider in front of a table of homemade breads, kale salads, empanadas and fancy olives, I surveyed the room with satisfaction; every admirable profession was accounted for. Lawyers. Professors. Teachers. An advanced practice nurse, a school board member, several community organizers and social workers. The party had been advertised as women-only, a continuation of the energy generated at the Women’s Marches around the country.
The woven scarves and harem pants were beautiful. The edgy t-shirts and great boots implied a confidence in the freedom of an all-woman crowd that doesn’t need to impress itself. There was tribal-style jewelry; there were big chunky rings and simple leather bracelets; there were a few visible tattoos, surely with great stories.
The host, a woman I’d admired from the moment I met her, had invited me to her home several times in the decade during which we’d been acquainted. She was a social justice warrior, worldly and fascinating, beautiful in an interesting way, with a sexual allure that transcended — or maybe was enhanced by — her wild salt-and-pepper hair. Her children and mine were close in age but not friends.
I should have known better, but the idea of being in her orbit — even as a minor, outlying…
