Blond, bespeckled and of calm demeanor, she greeted me as I walked through the doors of the furniture store. In the 10 years since I last purchased furniture, we had traded places in a sense, or at least now I was the one who sported 5-0. She had lost her husband and was caring for her mother. She said she'd not pursued any relationships because of the latter. Her saying that sort of sparked a pang of sadness inside of me. But, I left the store with a receipt for a sectional sofa and with a gift of buoyancy in my heart. Because of her.

I told her my rush to purchase the sofa for my new home. The home that will be hosting a wedding in less than two weeks. We talked about my "nervous" energy and the changes in our lives resulting from the aging process in the 10 years since. "I'm 60," she said with pride. And added: "I think I look pretty good!" On a scrap of paper she wrote down my summer moving-wedding mantras: 'Good Enough is the New Perfect" and "Perfect is the Enemy of the Good." She said she'd share them with her group of girlfriends that met regularly. This woman who said aloud her age with pride and added she looked good (and she did,) added that she gave up being perfect when she got cellulite. "I realized it wasn't about how much you exercised or how well you ate. It just happens."

Thank you, Anita. You gave me a gift to carry into the next decade. And the next. And the…

On the opposite end, there was the woman who plopped her very pregnant self into my hairdresser's chair when I left the salon yesterday. As I gathered up my portable kitchen sink of paraphernalia I tote everywhere, she told James: "The worst part of sitting here for an hour is that I have to look at myself."

Why is it that so many of us have to live an additional 20 to 30 years to our lives until we can claim: "I am ?-0, and damn! I look good!"?