Ragers

As a woman, when you get older, you disappear. It’s a gradual process that dawns like an insult and morphs into divine liberation. Yesterday, my friends and I, all in our sixties and seventies, went to a brewery where we were the oldest people by decades. We sat at the center table- a power move, creating a vortex in the very heart of the bustling tap room that people gave wide berth to, like they might catch our inevitability and crease their tattoos.

Left to our own devices, we leaned in for each other’s stories and Trump-bashings and to show pictures of funny memes and kids and grandkids on our phones. The bartenders treated us kindly, as they should; we are generous. I mean, we were young once and on the other side of a tip jar.  After four hours of unabashed revelry, we hit our limit. It was almost eight, and we were literally itching to take our bras off. And if this scenario this sounds even the least bit depressing to you, I promise you, wait. You should be so lucky.