The Old Friends Edit

What a late-summer Saturday with women I’ve known for decades reminded me about friendship, getting older and the lives we’re building next

A few days ago, I wrote about the circle of women.

About how women have always helped other women make their way through life. I think we've lost some of that in our increasingly disconnected world, and I value the women around me even more as I get older.

Then I spent a Saturday inside my own circle.

Four of us met at a friend's family beach house for one of those late-summer Cape Cod days when summer hasn't quite left, but fall is definitely making itself known. It was partly sunny and only in the high 60s. Not exactly bathing-suit weather.

I wore an old navy J.Crew cotton tunic cover-up, a Cape Cod baseball cap and brought my YETI with a Negroni tucked inside. Everyone brought food, which naturally meant we had far too much.

Four of the seven Hens could make it that day.

We've called ourselves the Hens for years. Some of us have known each other since high school. Others met in college or while we were starting our careers in our early twenties. Somehow, those separate friendships became this group of seven women who have now been making our way through life together for more than three decades.

We've been there for marriages and careers. New jobs and businesses. Deaths in our families. Milestone birthdays. Girls' weekends and vacations. Dinners and couples' nights. The big things, certainly, but also all the ordinary things that make up most of a life.

There was nothing particularly momentous planned for this Saturday.

And perhaps that's why I noticed it so much.

The circle was everywhere

Our friend's older sister came by after kayaking. Her mother, now in her late eighties and still going strong, was there too.

Before the rest of us arrived, one of my friends had been sitting outside in the sun with her, talking about the fiction books they were both reading.

I loved that.

There was no obligation involved. She simply had some time before we arrived and chose to spend it with an older woman she's known for years, comparing books in the sunshine.

Later, our friend's sister told us about an old friend of hers who had recently flown in from Washington, D.C. They'd gone to an exhibition by a woman artist she'd met and then had a wonderful baked stuffed lobster lunch together. We heard about the boards she serves on and the things happening in her own life.

And suddenly I was looking at several generations of women doing exactly what I'd just written about.

Talking. Sharing. Checking in. Learning what everyone else is doing. Passing along books and ideas and experiences.

Nothing organized. No networking event. No manufactured community.

Just women staying connected to one another.

We've had very different lives

One of the things I love about the Hens is how different our paths have been.

Among the seven of us are women who have built careers in retail, recruiting, corporate leadership, university administration, the county court system, counseling and veterinary medicine. There are board members and published authors. Women who volunteer and women who helped start a nonprofit community organization.

These are accomplished women.

But sitting together on the beach, nobody's résumé matters very much.

We were much more interested in what was actually happening in one another's lives.

And, because we're women in our fifties, that eventually included perimenopause and menopause.

Of course it did.

We compared notes and shared what we'd learned. We talked about our health and what we're doing to preserve it. We talked about work, retirement and what each of us might want the next chapter to look like.

That conversation stayed with me.

We're starting to ask different questions

When we were younger, so much of the conversation was about what came next.

Marriage. Children. Careers. Houses. Promotions. Building businesses. Making enough money. Getting established.

We're still ambitious women. None of that has disappeared.

But the questions are changing.

What would retirement actually look like?

Would we move somewhere warmer? Travel more? Spend more time on the ocean?

Would there be grandchildren to help with, or nieces' and nephews' children to enjoy?

Would we finally play more tennis or take up pickleball? Be more active? Have more time to see the people we love?

How do we protect our health so we're actually able to enjoy all of it?

And what standard of living do we want enough to keep working for?

I don't think any of us was imagining retirement as sitting still.

We were imagining more life.

More time with people. More movement. More travel. More family. More water and sunshine. More freedom to decide what Tuesday looks like.

And perhaps a little less rushing.

I've been thinking about retirement quite a bit myself lately, and I've realized that the question isn't simply when I can stop working.

It's what I'm making room for.

Saturday gave me a pretty good example.

The best parts weren't planned

Eventually, the beach gathering wound down.

Three of us ended up back at another friend's house, sitting around her fire pit.

We shared recipes. We kept talking. We caught up on the things we hadn't gotten to earlier.

No agenda.

Nobody had planned a meaningful conversation about midlife friendship.

We were just having one.

And maybe that's part of what I've been trying to put into words with The Polished Reset.

There is so much advice available to women at this age about optimizing ourselves.

What to buy. What to wear. What to eat. How to exercise. How to sleep. How to age. How to invest. How to retire.

Some of it is genuinely useful. I share plenty of it here.

But I increasingly think that living well has as much to do with who is sitting beside us as what we're doing to ourselves.

You can buy the beautiful dress.

You can take the trip.

You can make the retirement plan.

You can finally have enough time.

But you still need people to call when you want to use it.

Thirty years is a long conversation

There is something wonderful about being with women who knew you before you became the person you are now.

They've seen different versions of you.

And you've seen theirs.

We've watched one another become wives, professionals, business owners, leaders, caregivers and, in some cases, mothers. We've lost people. We've changed jobs. We've gotten older.

We've changed our minds about things.

We've also apparently reached the stage of life where an afternoon can move quite naturally from menopause to retirement planning to recipes without anyone finding this remotely unusual.

I rather like that.

And I know how fortunate I am.

Not everyone has friendships that have lasted decades. Life happens. People move. Relationships change. Some friendships simply run their course.

But I don't think the lesson is that everyone needs seven friends they've known since high school.

It's that the relationships we do have deserve some of our attention.

Call the friend.

Accept the invitation.

Sit with someone's mother while you're waiting.

Stay for the fire.

Bring too much food.

These things can look insignificant while they're happening.

Thirty years later, you realize they weren't.

A Few Things From the Weekend

I don't want every story on The Polished Reset to turn into a shopping list. This particular Saturday certainly wasn't about things.

But a few things came along with me and genuinely worked, so they're worth passing along.

An easy navy beach dress. Mine is an older 100% cotton J.Crew tunic that is no longer available, which may be part of the point. I've kept it because it's exactly the sort of thing I want for a cool day at the beach: easy, washable and useful beyond one season. If you are into resale, you can find it on Poshmark. For a similar idea currently available, I'd look for a simple natural-fiber popover such as the Quince 100% European Linen Popover Mini Dress. The Banana Republic Cotton Trapeze Mini Shirt Dress is another current option if you prefer cotton or Vineyard Vines Grace Tunic Cover-up.

My YETI. I brought my favorite summer cocktail, a Negroni, in my cherry-blossom YETI. Hours later, when I actually wanted it, the ice hadn't melted. This is precisely the kind of unglamorous product performance that makes me recommend something. Mine is from the Rambler line; a ceramic-lined 10-ounce version is a nice size for cocktails and other drinks.

A Negroni for the beach. I brought a premixed Campari Negroni because this wasn't an afternoon when anyone needed to be mixing cocktails. A good bottled or canned version is ideal for an occasional beach gathering or barbecue. For making your own, a quality Negroni mixer is another easy option. As always, bring what works for you—cocktail, mocktail, sparkling water or otherwise.

A sailcloth overnight tote. I stayed at a friend's afterward and packed my things in a handcrafted Newport Re-Sail Open Tote. I've always liked sailcloth bags around New England because they're practical and somehow get better when they're actually used. Sea Bags of Maine's Chebeague Market Tote is a similar current option I like for an easy overnight or weekend bag.

Nothing revolutionary.

A dress you can throw on. A good bag. Something cold to drink.

And people you've known long enough that you don't need much else.

Later that evening, sitting around the fire, I thought again about the Circle of Women Edit.

I'd written that I wanted The Polished Reset to become a place where one woman could pass along something worth knowing to another.

That afternoon, I realized that's what the Hens have been doing for one another all along.

A recipe.

A book.

A doctor.

A job lead.

Menopause advice.

An idea about retirement.

A place to travel.

A different way of looking at something.

And sometimes no advice at all.

Just showing up.

I don't know exactly what the next thirty years will look like for any of us.

But I hope there are beaches.

I hope there are fire pits.

I hope someone still brings too much food.

And I hope we're still sitting around talking about what comes next.

Ashley
Founder, The Polished Reset