There is a seven year age difference between Wendy and me. It used to bother me, but it doesn't any more. We're meant to be together despite the gap. Or because of the gap. I stopped thinking about it years ago.
On our recent New Years beach trip, we were playing a trivia game about the 1980s. Our friend Marcie, the one who just celebrated her 24th birthday for the fifth time, said, "In 1987, I was eleven years old."
I followed with, "In 1987, I was a married suburban housewife with a two-year old."
We all laughed.
Today is my friend Tina's birthday, the day she catches up with me and we are the same age for a few months. Happy birthday, Dirt. Don't stand too close to the cake or your hair will look like your husband's did after he ignited the yulelog this past Christmas.
We had dinner Saturday with the only other lesbian couple we know locally. They are both 53. The conversation turned briefly to hot flashes. Wendy and I both posed interested questions. Then it dawned on me if they are having hot flashes and are 53, I'm closer than I like to imagine to hot flashes of my own.
Folks I've known while I was an adult and they were children are now becoming adults themselves. Once they either graduate high school or hit 18, whichever comes last, I expect them to quit calling me Ms. *insert my last name here* and start calling me Suzanne. The transition is easier for some than others.
Our neighbor is an older woman. She has children my age. No no, strike that. She has children Wendy's age. I want to be an old lady like her: sharp, capable, independent and caring.
There's not really a point to sharing these tidbits. Except to say I'm fortunate enough to have the influence of friends of many generations in my life.
There's something to be learned from everyone, no matter their age. Best be sure you're paying attention.