A few years ago, I spoke to a lively group of women that had been started by my friend Joan Rogliano, a divorced realtor living in Colorado. The Wildflower Group had been formed out of a need for an organization to tend to the needs of recently-widowed and divorced women.
I copied and pasted the scammer’s message into the white block for reporting fake profiles. This was the eighth this week. The copy is almost always identical too, and goes like this: [Some guy] has found the love of his life…
“How do you identify the barnacles and how do you strip them off?” A kind reader posed this question at the bottom of a recent article of mine on Sixty and Me. I was writing about my friend Terri Ducay…
This morning I wrapped up an article about a new friend, Susan McNamee. Susan, 67, lives here in Denver. In her teens, all she ever wanted to do was be a mom.
It can get old hearing exhortation after exhortation about exercising. In fact, it’s almost as exhausting reading or hearing about it as doing it. After all, isn’t it just too late at this point?
A recent New York Times article argues that the statistics of violence done to female solo travelers are scary. Women traveling on their own, and there are vastly more of us of all ages now than ever before, are subject to all manner of dangers. We disappear, we get attacked, we die a brutal death.
“Oh my gosh, you are so lucky. I wish I could do that.”
Terri Ducay smiles. I can hear it in her voice. We’re on the phone, talking about her life.
Several weeks ago, a woman commented on an article I’d done about getting older vs. getting old. She told a story about taking a bad fall over a concrete curb, sitting there for a few moments, and then moving on.
My neighbor across the street lost her husband about a year ago. The huge house she now inhabits is an awful lot of work, as is the yard. The other morning after a seven-inch snowfall, our mutual neighbor was clearing her driveway, as he usually does, as I was digging out my own.