Most of my close friendships are with people in their 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s. We have so much in common — loves of family, travel, history, reading, and more — but there is one big difference. I’m only 30.
This summer, my husband, two toddlers, and I flew halfway across the country to stay with a couple nearly 50 years older than me; we drank milkshakes, played dominos, and relished hearing Sherry’s quippy southern sayings. My 76-year-old bestie, Sharane, and I spent last Saturday shopping for the perfect dress. And then there’s the 75-year-old hippie-turned-financial-advisor with whom I exchange emails that, when printed, become stacks of stapled wisdom-packed pages.
I’ve met my older friends in myriad ways. Several started out as book subject clients (I’m a biographer for grandparents) and then remained dear to me thereafter. I encountered one through my husband’s Rotary Club membership. Yet another friend was inherited, the daughter of my 95-year-old friend who passed away.
All of them hold a special place in my heart and have changed me for the better.
Their experience is invaluable
What is it about older people I like so much? Well, when I ask a friend my age for advice, what kind of advice am I really expecting to get? What vast well of wisdom can another 30-year-old possibly be drawing from?
If my workload is stressing me, 60-year-old Stacy can remind me I can handle it, challenge me to think practically about tasks I could potentially delegate, and put me at ease. As a small business owner like me, she’s been there, done that. I can trust her.
They offer hope
Another reason I love having older friends is that, while I lean on girlfriends my age to relate to what I’m going through — the throes of mothering little ones, the sleepless nights, and the endless streams of laundry — I rely on my older friends for something different: not solidarity, but hope.
Yes, motherhood is hard, but 82-year-old Juliette has already reared four children and is now drinking wine by her daughter’s pool while telling her stories. Thus, Juliette can assure me there’s light at the end of the tunnel.
They can be great role models
Not only do my older friends offer wisdom and enliven me with hope for the future, but they are what I long to be: unapologetically themselves. I look to their models for inspiration, optimistic their self-assurance will rub off on me.
Like many people my age, I struggle with my self-confidence. I know I’m not alone both because my peers agree and because my older friends assure me they once felt the same way. As I battle these oh-so-typical levels of insecurity, second-guessing what I wear or say or how I carry myself at a cocktail party, I watch my older friends effortlessly be their authentic selves.
“If they don’t like me by now, tough,” says my granny, who happens to be one of my best friends and confidantes.
There must be something emboldening about the passage of time because aging seems to build confidence and security in who we are at our cores. My older friends have voiced that they truly like the skin they have spent decades walking around in. Accordingly, they do and say what they want, regardless of what others think. And by proxy, I’m heartened to do the same.
They have taught me the importance of vulnerability
My older friends also compel me to be more vulnerable. I know firsthand that many youngins’, myself included, don’t feel comfortable voicing what we feel. I’m prone to ignore or circumvent my emotions and skip saying “I love you” because it can feel awkward. My older friends, on the other hand, seem to have shed this bad habit. They freely express themselves openly and lovingly. They take my hand as we walk down the driveway. They voice their pride in me. They display their feelings in ways many my age struggle to.
“Do you know how lucky we are to have found each other?” Sharane often asks. We might be at my kitchen table, or on a walk with my young children in the park. We might be on the swings like two kids ourselves. “I think we’re just what each other needed.”
I know she’s right. I know not everyone has a friend they can say anything to the way we can spill our guts to each other. We are what the other needed. Rather than keep my mouth shut, like I innately want to, stirred by her openness, I agree with her.
Why are my older friends so accepting of vulnerability? I think they know something my peers and I also know but try to avoid thinking about: that everything is temporary, we are all going to die, and there is only so much time—how much, we don’t know. My older friends recognize the need to seize every day and speak from our hearts while we still can.
They’re way more interesting than many people
The final reason I’m friends with older folks is that I simply find them more interesting than those my age. And why shouldn’t I? My older friends have lived at least twice or even three times as long as me and have a larger arsenal of lessons learned, hilarious stories, or touching moments to recount. They never run out of wise words or amusing anecdotes.
Last month, I had a four-hour coffee date with 87-year-old Fred and his wife, Linda. Several times, despite the numerous hours we’ve spent together, Fred said, “Wait, did I tell you about the time…?” and sure enough, he had not yet told me about that, for there are just too many times to tell of.
There are few certainties in life, but this I know: the next time I need encouragement, I’ll reread my stapled stacks of wisdom-packed pages; this summer, I’ll once again wrestle my toddlers onto a flight so we can visit our friends; and the next time I’m hunting for a new dress, I know just who I’ll call.
My older friends have led me toward the light of life. They have shined a light on the dark road of unknowns laid out before me. Somehow, they always seem to know the way home.
Read the full article here
