There was a series of unusual events on the East Coast in late August 2011. First, an earthquake rocked Washington, DC. A few days later, Hurricane Irene barreled down on New York and New Jersey.

But in between was an absolutely beautiful late-summer day. The sun was shining, and it wasn’t too hot or humid. Or at least that’s what it was like in Woodcliff Lake, New Jersey, on the day my husband, Joe, and I got married.

And so began my marriage. Nestled between two natural disasters.

Sounds like the plot of a rom-com, doesn’t it?

But it really happened. And somehow, my life has been a rom-com ever since.

While that particular episode may have been a little heavier on the “comedy,” 15 years later, I still find myself seeking out the “romance.”

Now, before you click away because you think this is about to become 800 words about our sappy, constantly hand-holding, never-go-to-bed-angry, Hallmark movie-style marriage… nothing could be further from the truth.

Joe is romantic and sweet in the ways that matter, but he’s not serenading me every night. “Sappy” isn’t in the top 100 words I’d use to describe him. And no one holds me accountable—or refuses to take my shit—quite like Joe does.

Because… 15 years of marriage. Plus another seven that we were together before we got married.

That’s a long time to be with someone. People will tell you that romance eventually falls apart. Or disappears completely. That it’s something you have to work to hold onto.

But I think romance just changes. Our definition of it changes as we grow.

And it’s not something you have to wait for. It’s something you can manufacture yourself.

And if you’ve been reading 40 and Giving Zero F’s for a while, you’ve probably caught on to the fact that I’m pretty good at manufacturing romance.

There are plenty of ways I make my life romantic that have nothing to do with my husband. It’s about seeking out experiences that feel special, even when they’re inconvenient.

It’s staying out late on a weeknight because something is worth staying up for.

It’s sitting on the covered porch and reading during a rainstorm.

It’s treating yourself to a fancy cocktail when your plans change instead of going home early.

It’s trying something absurd, like goat yoga, just because you can.

It’s buying yourself flowers because you realize you really fucking love flowers. (For the record, Joe also buys me flowers. I’m not trying to start a fight here.)

Choosing romance means not always being practical. There is almost nothing practical about romance.

I’m 41, and I’m tired. I have a demanding job, kids to raise, and a thousand things to do. It would almost always be easier not to do the thing. To just stay home.

But I don’t want to make every decision based on what’s easiest. When I think about the things that make my life feel full and interesting, very few of them happened because I chose the most practical option. Sometimes that extra effort is exactly what turns an ordinary day into one I’ll actually remember.

And I want more of those days.

Joe and I have known each other for 22 years. I couldn’t even begin to count the number of meals we’ve had together. Most of them haven’t been special. Sometimes it’s just dinner on a Tuesday.

But every once in a while, I crave something that feels special. Even on a random Tuesday.

I also don’t expect it to just happen. Sometimes I have to nudge it along and choose the romantic thing instead of the easy one.

Which brings me back to this week and my 15-year wedding anniversary with Joe, and to our nearly perfect wedding day, nestled between two natural disasters.

We’ve kept romance in our life together, not because we’ve stayed in some perpetual honeymoon phase, but because we keep choosing it. Even when that means figuring out which breweries are open on a Tuesday night because that’s when daycare has parents’ night out, or one of us tagging along on the other’s work trip just to squeeze in a little extra time alone together.

But speaking of honeymoons… back in 2011, we didn’t leave for Hawaii until a few days after our wedding. By the time we knew we’d have the time off, our preferred flight—direct from Newark to Honolulu—was sold out.

That turned out to be incredibly lucky, because Hurricane Irene canceled that flight for days. Instead, we rode out the storm back in Virginia and flew to Hawaii from DC a few days later.

The only hiccup? Our car got towed during the hurricane because we’d accidentally parked in the wrong spot.

Because… our life is a rom-com.

Fifteen years later, I’ve realized life is pretty good at supplying the comedy all on its own. The romance is the part I have to choose.

Luckily, I’m pretty good at manufacturing it.

I was sitting at the pool with my laptop when an older gentleman gestured toward it and asked with a smirk, “Hard at work, or hardly working?”

“Definitely hard at work,” I said, with a wink.

The man chuckled. “I won’t tell your boss.”

“You can, I don’t mind,” I answered as he headed back to his lounger and picked up his Tom Clancy novel, which probably seemed much more appropriate for the pool.

But my laptop was appropriate for me. Because I was getting plenty of work done.

I just couldn’t do video calls (not without risking some HR complaints, at least!). Which meant I had the unexpected bonus of uninterrupted time without meetings or calls—and I was actually more productive because of it. I dug out of my inbox and finally offered feedback on a report that needed my eyes on it.

So what if I was doing it from the pool on an otherwise vacation day?

I’m going to say something controversial: I don’t like the idea of work-life balance.

Balance requires things to be equal. And it implies they should be separate.

That just doesn’t work for me.

I love my job. I’m lucky enough to work for a company I love, with a mission I’m passionate about. I’m also good at my job. It’s not all rainbows and sunshine. My job can be demanding, my plate is almost always full, and there are certainly days when I’m frustrated. Loving my job doesn’t mean I love every minute of it.

But I also love… a lot of other things in my life.

My daughters. My husband. My friends. This Substack. Travel. Volunteering. My never-ending TBR list.

And then there’s everything else that still has to fit somewhere. Laundry. Appointments. Errands. And the approximately 4,000 tiny administrative tasks required to keep a household and several human beings functioning.

I want to make room for all of it.

And sometimes that means the categories bleed together a bit.

I rarely, if ever, truly “sign off” for the night. When I’m on vacation, I almost always at least keep an eye on my email.

To be clear, I don’t think this makes me more dedicated or better at my job. No one is asking me to do it, and I certainly don’t expect my team to work the same way. Some people need—and prefer—clear boundaries between work and everything else, and I fully respect that.

That’s just not what works best for me.

What I value most is flexibility.

I travel often enough that completely unplugging every time just doesn’t work particularly well for me. Checking in occasionally lets me stay on top of things without coming home to an inbox that makes me immediately regret having left. It’s a tradeoff I’m more than happy to make—especially because it means I can travel more.

And that flexibility goes both ways.

While my top priority at work is obviously work, life doesn’t disappear just because it’s between 9 and 5. Sometimes I make a personal phone call in the middle of the day. Sometimes I do something quickly for my Substack. Sometimes I duck out to grab coffee with a friend. If one of my daughters needs something, I deal with it.

And the same is true in the other direction. I don’t mind talking about work outside of work. My husband and I are in the same industry and know a lot of the same people. We talk shop quite a bit.

Work bleeds into life. Life bleeds into work.

And I’m increasingly convinced that, for me, that’s not a problem I need to solve.

I’m also very aware that I’m lucky to have the kind of job where this is possible. I have autonomy. I’ve spent years building trust. What matters is that I do my job well and deliver on what’s expected of me, not that every hour of every day looks a certain way.

That freedom is enormously valuable to me.

Because it lets me build a really full life around a career I also care deeply about.

Maybe that’s why “balance” has never felt like the right goal.

Balance makes me picture a scale, with work sitting on one side and the rest of my life piled onto the other, constantly requiring tiny adjustments to keep everything perfectly even.

It feels like something I’m supposed to keep score on, constantly tallying up which side got more of me. Work got an hour of my vacation, but I grabbed coffee with a friend at 2 p.m. on a Wednesday. I answered an email from the beach, but I also took a personal phone call in the middle of the workday. Am I supposed to keep track until everything comes out perfectly even?

Except… who cares?

Nobody is keeping score.

I’d rather zoom out and ask whether I’m making an impact and driving results at work, showing up for the people I love, making time for the things that matter to me, and building a life that I actually enjoy living.

If the answer is yes, I’m not particularly concerned about which category owned a random 20 minutes of my Tuesday.

I don’t want work-life balance. I want a full life—one with work I care about and people I love, projects that excite me, places I want to go, books I want to read, and entirely too many things crammed onto my calendar.

And I want enough flexibility for all of those things to coexist.

Which brings me back to the pool.

I was sitting in the sunshine, getting through a report that needed my attention without a single meeting interrupting me. Eventually, I closed the laptop and picked up a romance novel instead.

I still don’t know whether that counts as work-life balance. But I got the report done, and I got to spend the afternoon at the pool.

I’ll take it.

“Do you want to be my friend?” the young girl asked my daughter.

It was the first day of summer camp at Busch Gardens. Since the camp was hours away from where we live in northern Virginia, my daughters knew they wouldn’t know anyone. But both of my daughters are incredibly social. I joke that my 11-year-old has never met a stranger. She has significantly more confidence than I did at that age, when the idea of having to make friends with an entirely new group of kids would have rattled me.

The drop-off process was a little disorganized, but my 7-year-old quickly found her age group and sat down to color without much of a goodbye to her parents.

But my 11-year-old froze. There weren’t any seats left, and she (understandably) didn’t want to sit by herself. Plus, it seemed like most of these kids already knew each other.

And then one girl noticed that my daughter was nervous, came over, and threw out that lifeline: “Do you want to be my friend?”

My daughter nodded, and the other girl grabbed a chair and made space at her table. She introduced my daughter to the other kids, who quickly welcomed her into the conversation. My daughter gave her a small, grateful smile.

As I left, satisfied that everything was okay, I was almost in tears with gratitude for that girl—for doing something I don’t think I do often enough in my own life: being the person who invites a stranger to join.

I’m not nearly as outgoing and vivacious as my daughters. Like many adults, I don’t make friends easily. Given the choice, I’d rather stay comfortably with my group of besties than venture outside my established circle.

In fact, my husband has gently teased me that I need to make friends with more of my younger daughter’s classmates’ parents. Over the years, I’ve made some amazing friends through my older daughter and her classmates.

“But I have plenty of mom friends!” I whined.

“Yeah, but it would be nice to have friends over and have someone for our younger daughter to play with,” he reasoned.

He wasn’t wrong. So I’ve tried to make more of an effort. But my initial reaction probably says something about why making friends as an adult can be so hard: once we have our people, it’s easy to stop looking for anyone else.

It’s not that I don’t like expanding my circle. In fact, while I’m not the most approachable before you get to know me, I actually love bringing seemingly disparate friend groups together. One of my favorite Christmas traditions is throwing a huge brunch for our friends. We intentionally invite people from all the different parts of our lives, and I absolutely love introducing a mom friend to a friend from work because their kids play the same sport. Or a friend from college to a neighbor because they both love to bake.

But that’s when I’m playing the role of hostess.

As adults, we rarely consciously decide I’m not going to include that person. We just give ourselves a dozen tiny reasons not to be the one who goes first. Maybe she’s waiting for someone. Maybe he wants to be alone. Maybe it’ll be awkward. Maybe they already know each other. Someone else will probably say something.

It’s easier for a kid to say something very literal like, “Do you want to be my friend?”

As an adult, that same invitation comes out more like, “Um, hi. You’re obviously welcome to sit with us. Unless you’re waiting for someone. Or just enjoying being alone. In which case, please ignore me.”

When we picked my daughters up from camp that afternoon, you would never have known the morning had gotten off to a rocky start. Both girls had a fantastic day and could rattle off the names of plenty of new friends.

I asked my older daughter if she was grateful to the girl who had talked to her first that morning. She was.

And because I can’t resist a teachable moment, I said, “When you start middle school next month, remember how this felt.”

She has perfected the pre-teen eye roll, but I think she appreciated the point I was trying to make.

And given how socially treacherous middle school can be, I hope she does remember how it felt. I hope that when she walks into the cafeteria and easily finds her people, she remembers what it was like to be the one standing there without a seat. And if she notices someone else hovering at the edge of the room, looking for somewhere to belong, I hope she’ll be the one who scoots over.

But I need to remember this, too.

There will be plenty of times when I’m already sitting comfortably at the table with people I know and love, while someone else is still looking for somewhere to sit.

I don’t have to become the person who works every room or makes a new best friend everywhere she goes. That’s not me.

But I can notice.

I can make the introduction. I can start the conversation. I can scoot over.

I can grab another chair.

One of my favorite things about Substack is stumbling across a writer who makes me think, Where have you been all this time?

That’s how I felt when I found Grace McClure and her newsletter, Back to Shameless. Grace is a recovering 9-to-5 tech marketer, former stand-up comedian, and writer of funny, sharp essays about womanhood, authenticity, and becoming less palatable with age.

The more I read, the more I found myself thinking, I'd love to sit down with her over a cup of coffee (or a glass of wine). Since that's not exactly practical, I did the next best thing...I asked Grace a few questions.

What are you not waiting for anymore?

I’m no longer waiting for things to “just happen.” As someone with an aversion to self-promotion, I assumed that consistent, good writing would speak for itself on Substack. I was wrong. I published on Substack for three years and thought that by hitting “publish” and then closing my laptop to go and drink margaritas, I was trying.

Again, I was wrong.

If we want something, like really want it, the onus (not anus) is on us. As I’m typing this, I’ve just realized onus = on us. And this is exactly it: it’s our responsibility to do everything in our power to push our goals across the finish line.

“No one is coming for you” is the title of an essay I published earlier this year, and I think about that mantra often.

My readers know I’m fascinated by the invisible rules we all seem to follow. What’s one “rule” you’ve quietly stopped following—and do you remember what made you question it in the first place?

After getting laid off a year ago, I began taking stock of the games we play professionally and the ways we let ourselves down by not being authentic. I’m not interested in returning to 9-to-5 employment and instead want to build my own thing.

By checking in on what is and isn’t authentic to me, I’ve taken stock of a lot of invisible rules. For example: quietly listen and nod along to the boring boomer man in a vest and assume he knows best.

He doesn’t know what’s best for you. You know what’s best for you.

Your Substack is called Back to Shameless. What’s something you wish more women felt completely shameless about?

I love this question. So many things. I wish women were more shameless about their authenticity. I see a lot of women defer to false authority and dim their shine to make others more comfortable.

My wish for all women is that they shamelessly pour more into themselves and let their freak flags fly without worrying about crow’s feet. I genuinely believe that shameless, unbothered women will change the world.

Is there a version of yourself from ten years ago who would be surprised by the woman you are today? If so, what would surprise her most?

Again, I love this question. Firstly, I can’t believe how quickly a decade has flown by. But I think if 26-year-old me met me today, she’d be a little disappointed that we’re not living oceanside in Portugal and enjoying early retirement.

But I do think she’d be impressed by my resilience and commitment to figuring it out. She’d be happy that I’m leaning more into my creative life and that I’ve left behind the 9-to-5 in pursuit of a more fulfilling unknown.

She’d also like our two Boston terriers, Dewey and Maeby.

What’s something that brings you an unreasonable amount of joy?

Making people laugh. I grew up with funny as the highest currency. I was the youngest in my family and always felt like I had to reach up. I also decided I was going to be ugly in Grade 7, when my hair coiled into a bowl cut and I had braces and acne, so I figured I’d better work on my personality.

Luckily, things levelled out, but until they did, I went full class clown (to the dismay of my classmates, minus my best friend and co-conspirator, Lainey). I still love the feeling of saying the thing everyone is thinking, but doing it playfully and with a bit of tact.

I’m happiest when I get to connect with people and share a laugh, and if we can do that in the sunshine with a cold bev in hand, all the better.

I laughed out loud more than once reading Grace’s answers. (The “onus...not anus” aside almost did me in.)

But what stuck with me wasn't just her sense of humor. It was the freedom in her writing—not because she has everything figured out, but because she seems to trust herself enough to stop asking everyone else for permission.

I think that’s why Back to Shameless resonated with me in the first place. Around here, we talk a lot about giving fewer F’s. Grace talks about reclaiming the shamelessness we all had before the world started telling us who we should be.

Different words. Same spirit.

Thanks, Grace, for letting us all pull up a chair to the conversation.

You can find Grace at Back to Shameless, where she writes funny, sharp essays about womanhood, authenticity, and becoming less palatable with age.

And if there’s another writer you’d love to see featured in a future installment of “So I Asked...”, let me know in the comments.

No one at the pool knew me. My daughters were at camp. My husband was back at the AirBnB. I was never going to see any of these people ever again.

In fact, the other people at the adults-only pool were mostly two decades older. They were much more interested in chatting with each other than paying attention to me.

But I was still a little nervous about pulling my cover-up over my head. The bikini bottom wasn't a thong, but skimpy in a different way. It was a string bikini, and while my ass was covered, my lower belly wasn't. That's always been the part of me I instinctively try to hide.

Show off my ass-cheeks to the world? Apparently, yes.

But my lower belly in a string bikini? Twist my arm. Hard.

Which got me thinking about how the goalposts keep moving. For most of my adult life, the idea of wearing a thong bikini in public was outrageous. I couldn’t possibly. But now? I’ve done it multiple times.

In fact, when I was on a cruise in June with a friend, my thong bikini felt like my “most comfortable” bathing suit.

So that’s how I ended up at a pool in a string bikini, feeling not at all confident but feeling like I should be.

The bikini was expensive. I had been lured in by an Instagram ad promising the top was going to be a unicorn: supportive enough for my larger chest while still being cute. And despite the logistical challenge of a bikini top that looks like a bikini but is structured like an over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder, it ended up being the bottom that gave me pause. The first one I tried just didn't feel right. So I exchanged it for the string bikini, which, while a bit more skimpy, was actually more comfortable. And it was black-and-white gingham, which made it just so very cute.

So maybe it was that very specific variety of “girl math”: I spent way more on this bikini than I normally would, so damn it, I was going to wear the thing.

I was committed to the bikini.

And it was fine. Nothing happened. I reclined in a lounger and read a book for work.

Then I decided to cool off in the pool. I even brought my hardcover book with me, holding it in front of my face as I wandered around the pool like Belle in Beauty and the Beast, completely oblivious to the townspeople singing about her.

(No one sang about me... that I noticed.)

It was a completely uneventful bikini event.

What had seemed like such a big deal to me wasn’t even on anyone else’s radar.

At some point, I realized that if anyone noticed me at all, it probably wasn’t because of my string bikini bottom. It was because I was wearing a big floppy hat and wandering around the pool with a hardcover book held up in front of my face.

People usually use the phrase “the goalposts keep moving” as a negative. And maybe sometimes it is.

But in this instance, it feels right.

I used to assume that confidence was all or nothing. You either had it, or you didn’t.

But confidence isn’t a finish line. It’s a little more here, a little more there. The things that once felt impossible slowly become ordinary. And instead of arriving at some magical place where I never feel insecure again, I find myself standing at the edge of a new comfort zone, one that would’ve felt completely out of reach just a few years ago.

And I wouldn’t even say I’ve unlocked that level of string bikini confidence yet. If I think about it too long, I can still talk myself out of it.

But that afternoon in Williamsburg, I eventually became more focused on the book I was reading and my Disney princess aesthetic.

I was distracted by... just living my life.

I’m writing this from the beach, on vacation with friends and our families. I didn’t pack the black-and-white gingham bikini—not because I’m opposed to wearing a bikini on this trip, but because I knew I’d be spending at least a little time chasing kids on the sand, and I didn’t need a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen.

But I did pack some other bikinis. In fact, one style (which I own in two colors) is so comfortable that I find myself walking around without a cover-up.

A few years ago, I couldn’t imagine walking around in any bikini without a cover-up.

Now I do it without really thinking about it.

Which makes me wonder what feels impossible today will someday become my new normal.

I don’t even remember how I stumbled across the idea last spring, but somehow I learned that Busch Gardens in Williamsburg, Virginia, offers summer camp.

Summer camp at a theme park?

Sure, the campers ride rides. But they also spend the week learning about things like animal conservation, engineering, and even getting to go behind the scenes of the roller coasters to learn how they're designed.

Fourteen-year-old Amanda, who spent an unreasonable amount of time playing RollerCoaster Tycoon, was immediately hooked. Since there was no adult version of camp (rude), I instantly fell in love with the idea of sending my daughters so I could live vicariously through them. Besides, I knew they’d both love it.

The only problem?

We don’t live in Williamsburg.

We live in Northern Virginia, about three and a half hours away, not counting the sometimes horrific traffic on I-95.

But my husband and I started toying with the idea anyway. It was too late for last summer (you know how early you have to lock in those camp registrations!), so we made a mental note to see if we could make it work this year.

The plan was simple: rent an Airbnb for the week, work remotely while the girls were at camp, and meet them in the park in the evenings. We wouldn’t have to take vacation time, but we’d still get a change of scenery and make a few family memories along the way.

It wasn’t really a vacation. It was more like taking an ordinary workweek and seeing how much more memorable we could make it.

Besides, Williamsburg has a special place in our family’s origin story. It’s where my husband and I met as students at the College of William & Mary, and we still find ourselves back there at least once a year—usually as an overnight stop on the way to somewhere else.

Spending an entire week in Williamsburg so we could work remotely while our kids went to summer camp?

It made almost no sense.

Which is probably why I loved the idea so much.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking, “Is this the easiest option?” and started asking, “Will we be glad we did it?”

I’ve realized that a lot of our favorite family memories start exactly this way—with an idea that makes us smile... followed almost immediately by, “But how would we actually pull that off?”

So... we pulled it off.

It was definitely a little inconvenient. Packing up your life for a week is a lot less glamorous than it sounds.

We ordered groceries, only to realize we’d forgotten Ziploc bags—a camp lunch essential—and had to make a second trip to the store. It turns out our kitchen at home is full of things we never think about until they’re missing.

My husband and I also had to play calendar Tetris, rearranging meetings around camp drop-off and pick-up, while hoping the Airbnb Wi-Fi would cooperate. (It did... until it didn’t.)

And then there was the Airbnb itself. It was... fine. A little dated. A little worn. But the real surprise came on the first night, when we discovered the dishwasher wasn’t actually installed. It was just... sitting there. Like kitchen décor.

You know where the dishwasher works exactly as intended? Our house.

At any point, we could have decided it wasn’t worth the hassle.

But I don’t regret it for a second.

Because I’m not going to remember the forgotten Ziploc bags or the Wi-Fi issues.

The decorative dishwasher, however, is absolutely making the highlight reel.

Everything else? Here’s what I’ll actually remember.

I’ll remember meeting the girls in the park after their first full day of camp, and my 7-year-old telling me all about the “loop de loop” roller coasters she’s now tall enough (and brave enough) to ride. I’ll remember my 11-year-old explaining what it was like to ride one of the indoor coasters with the lights on, an experience reserved just for campers.

I’ll remember my daughters holding hands with my parents, who joined us for a few days so they could have a little change of scenery too. And I’ll especially remember how they convinced my father to ride a roller coaster... and maybe how they fibbed just a little about how intense it was. (He survived, but had absolutely no interest in riding it again.)

And when my husband had to leave two days early for a work trip, I made the executive decision to stay one more night so the girls and I could have our own little Busch Gardens adventure. We had “snacks for dinner,” and they experienced that theme park delicacy known as funnel cake for the very first time.

None of those memories would exist without a little inconvenience.

A little extra planning.

A willingness to figure out how to make it all work.

Maybe that’s the trick. When an idea makes you smile, don’t spend your energy figuring out why it won’t work.

Spend it figuring out how it could.

Because someday, the story won’t start with the forgotten Ziploc bags or even the decorative dishwasher.

It’ll start with, “Remember that summer we rented a house in Williamsburg so you girls could go to camp at Busch Gardens?”

If you opened our closets, you’d probably assume Kathleen and I have completely different philosophies. She gravitates toward cozy, relaxed silhouettes. I live in dresses, heels, and anything that feels tailored.

But this conversation isn’t really about fashion.

It’s about confidence.

We talk about why we wear what we wear, how our personal “uniforms” have evolved over time, the freedom that comes from knowing what feels like you, and why confidence has nothing to do with following trends—and everything to do with feeling comfortable in your own skin.

Plus:

• Why we both ended up embracing a “uniform”

• The dress that feels like armor

• The romper that completely changed Amanda’s mind

• Kathleen’s dream of becoming “Whimsical Kathleen” in retirement 🦒

• A lightning round that reveals we actually agree more than we thought

Question for you: What outfit makes you feel the most like yourself?

Leave a comment

And if you missed our first episode, you can watch or listen here:

I think we all have that TV show where we’ve seen enough episodes enough times that we can quote them from memory.

For me, that show is The Golden Girls.

I remember watching it with my mom when I was young enough to get some of the jokes, while most of them went completely over my head. But I kept watching. And the older I got, the more I understood.

By the time I reached college, when I’d occasionally catch reruns at odd hours in my dorm room, I had all but decided that I wanted to be just like The Golden Girls when I was older.

Living in Miami with my best friends, still working, volunteering for causes I cared about, being a leader, and having late-night cheesecake and gossip sessions whenever I wanted? Not to mention, these ladies had a far more active dating life than most people half their age.

The Golden Girls became my vision for getting older.

And then this meme started making the rounds on the internet, hitting millennials like me completely out of nowhere.

It was a clip from an episode where Blanche is introducing herself during a group therapy session.

“I’m 41 years old, I’m 5’6”, I weigh 108 pounds, and my hair is its natural hue.”

As my fellow millennial women started turning 40, that clip went viral, usually paired with a caption like, “Guess I’m a Golden Girl now!”

But here’s the thing.

The clip is taken completely out of context.

Because Blanche is lying.

She wasn’t 41. She was in her mid-fifties to early sixties throughout the series.

But my insistence on accuracy aside... I’d happily be a Golden Girl, even now, at 41.

Those ladies were giving Zero F’s long before anyone coined the phrase.

Because at 41, I've learned that giving Zero F's doesn't mean you stop caring. It means you finally get honest about which things deserve one. You stop worrying about looking cool, apologizing for taking up space, or waiting for someone else to tell you your life is allowed to be joyful. And when I look back at those four women, that's exactly what I see.

Let's take Blanche, my spirit animal. Everyone remembers Blanche because she loved sex. Fair enough. But that's almost the least interesting thing about her. What I love most is that she refused to become invisible just because society expected women over fifty to fade into the background. She walked into every room like she belonged there. That's a very different kind of confidence.

Dorothy never seemed particularly interested in being liked by everyone. She didn't waste much energy trying to impress people she didn't actually like. There's something deeply Zero F's about that.

Sophia had very little interest in filtering her thoughts. Sometimes she was inappropriate. Sometimes she was wrong. Almost always, she was honest.

Rose gets dismissed as the naive one. I don't think that's fair. She refused to let disappointment turn into cynicism. Maintaining that kind of optimism after decades of life experience might actually be the bravest thing anyone on the show did.

How could I not see those women as role models?

They also had fun. They genuinely enjoyed their lives. There weren’t too many episodes of them just sitting around waiting for something to happen. They were running political campaigns, caring for neighbors, scheming up ways to make money, and saying yes to life.

They went on vacations. They went on dates. They fell in love. They broke hearts.

They made plenty of mistakes.

And somehow, no matter what happened, they always seemed to end up around the kitchen table, eating cheesecake. Lots and lots of cheesecake.

So maybe that’s why, when that meme went around the internet and everyone was so worried about suddenly becoming a Golden Girl, I was pretty excited.

Those women weren’t finished.

They were still becoming themselves.

They were still dating, still laughing, still trying new things, still making mistakes, still showing up for the people they loved.

They weren’t giving Zero F’s about everything. They cared deeply about their friends, their families, their work, and the lives they were building.

They just stopped wasting energy on the things that didn’t deserve their attention.

And honestly?

If becoming a Golden Girl means refusing to fade into the background, surrounding myself with people I love, laughing until midnight over cheesecake, and continuing to build a life that’s full of purpose and joy...

I can’t wait.

Turns out, you don’t have to wait to become a Golden Girl.

You just have to start living like one.

My daughters are four years apart in age, but their birthdays are only two weeks apart. So every summer, we find ourselves trying to plan one birthday party for two very different kids. This year, they wanted a sleepover. We just needed a theme.

Then one of us realized the girls were turning 7 and 11.

My husband, as serious as a heart attack, looked at me and said, “What about a 7-Eleven-themed birthday party?”

I’ll admit that at first I was skeptical. How could we possibly turn a convenience store into a birthday party? But then I asked ChatGPT for ideas, and within minutes I had a list of decorations, games, menu suggestions, and party favors. Then we started looking at dates and realized one of the options was July 11.

Well...at that point it just felt meant to be.

You might think a 7-Eleven is an odd choice for a birthday party.

My friends and family, on the other hand, just nodded and waited to see where we were going with it.

See, we have a bit of a reputation.

We don’t just pick a theme.

We commit to it.

Three years ago, we threw a Harry Potter-themed birthday party for our girls, their friends, and their friends' parents. I found a copycat butterbeer recipe, my husband built a Quidditch pitch in the backyard, and I somehow devised a "find your Patronus" game involving silver spray-painted animal figurines tied to black balloons to simulate Dementors. Three years later, we still have boxes of Harry Potter decorations in our closet. Turns out going all in takes up a surprising amount of storage space.

Or when the girls were little, we threw a Mermaids and Pirates party complete with a temporary tattoo station, pirate flags, and enough mermaid decorations that some of them are still hanging in our daughters' bathroom.

And don't even get me started on Halloween.

So getting into a theme is kind of our thing.

Which meant there was only one way to throw a 7-Eleven birthday party.

First, we obviously needed a way to make Slurpees, so we bought a Ninja Slushi machine when it went on sale during Prime Day.

Friends of ours loaned us a commercial-grade hot dog roller, so naturally we had hot dogs and taquitos slowly turning all evening.

We rounded out the menu with nachos and soft pretzels. We found a convenience store backdrop for photos. The kids decorated orange and green trucker hats with fabric markers and gems.

But the best part?

My husband bought a genuine 7-Eleven uniform shirt and hat on eBay.

Here’s my relationship advice: find someone who matches your enthusiasm.

The kids had a blast. The parents dropping them off got a good laugh. And the parents who stayed got all the convenience store food they could want—without having to stop for gas.

Was it a little over the top? Without question.

But afterward, I realized something. Nobody was trying to look cool. They were just participating.

And I’ve started to think that’s where most of the fun in life lives.

It’s the outrageous Derby hats. It’s the people dancing at the concert instead of standing in the back with their arms crossed. It’s the Halloween costume that’s held together with enthusiasm more than craftsmanship. It’s the matching family vacation T-shirts that everyone secretly makes fun of.

None of it is particularly cool.

But it’s almost always where the fun is.

My daughters loved the party, but I’m sure they would have loved another idea just as much. We could have skipped the theme altogether. The theme could have just been “Happy Birthday!” which is exactly what I threaten every year when the planning starts getting a little out of hand.

But it’s an empty threat, because I’m never going to turn down a theme.

Turns out it was never really about the decorations.

Or the Slurpees.

Or even the theme itself.

The best memories rarely come from playing it cool.

They come from the moments when everyone decides to lean in.

Maybe it was the heat wave that tore through the East Coast over the 4th of July weekend. Triple-digit temperatures. Humidity that made me question every article of clothing I owned. I wanted to wear as little clothing as possible.

So I kept reaching for a new favorite in my closet: a romper.

Everything about this romper would have made me cringe just a few months ago.

Built-in shorts (I hate shorts). A built-in bra (designed for women with considerably smaller boobs than mine). Athleisure fabric (I had a weird hesitation about the whole athleisure movement). I looked like I was about to go play tennis.

I never play tennis.

But damn if it isn’t comfortable.

It was so comfortable that I wore one three out of the four days of the holiday weekend. (Not on the Fourth, of course. All my rompers are black, and I can't possibly wear anything other than red, white, and blue on Independence Day.)

How did I end up with multiple black athleisure-style rompers (or, as Target calls them, “Athletic Dresses”) in my closet?

I’m a sucker for a deal. And a few weeks ago, Target had these beauties on sale for 40% off.

It’s amazing how much easier it is to take a chance on something you’re convinced isn’t for you when it’s 40% off.

I bought one in black and tried it on, fully expecting to hate it.

It looks like a mini dress. My thighs—which I’ve always had a complicated relationship with—were on full display. I have a rather ample behind, which means the skirt just barely covers the shorts.

And that built-in bra? Surprisingly comfortable. A little low-cut, but the racerback tank gave me enough support.

Once I threw away the pesky little bra pad inserts, it was honestly pretty great.

“This will be perfect to wear around the house,” I said to my reflection.

Which, in retrospect, was my way of saying: I like it. I just don’t think I’m allowed to wear it in public.

The first day I wore it around the house, my husband gave me a playful smack on the bottom and said I should wear short skirts more often.

Then my 10-year-old looked me up and down.

“This,” she said. “I like this. Can I have one in my size?”

Then I wore it out in public. Nothing glamorous. Just a quick trip to the grocery store. But before I even left the house, I’d already imagined all the objections.

Too short.

Too tight.

Too busty.

Too much thigh.

Too much of me, honestly.

But here’s the weird thing: absolutely nothing happened.

No one made any rude or crude comments. No one informed me that I’d violated the Official Romper Rules for 41-year-old women with thighs and boobs.

Because, of course, there are no Official Romper Rules.

There were only the ones I’d made up.

And I was the one enforcing them.

Everyone else was just buying groceries.

And honestly, there were probably a half dozen women in similar outfits, so I blended in more than I stood out.

And just like that, this black romper became my unofficial summer uniform.

I ordered two more. Still black (I’m not brave enough for a baby pink romper... yet), but with slightly different silhouettes.

They’re definitely not work-appropriate, so you won’t see me wearing one to the office. But for running errands, visiting friends, or picking up my daughter from sleepaway camp? Perfect. She kept talking about how much she liked it, so when they went on sale again, I bought her a few, too.

She wears a size XXS, and I wear a size Large.

She wanted the baby pink one, of course.

But she also wanted the black racerback so we could be “twinsies.”

It made me laugh.

Not that long ago, I would have rolled my eyes at the idea of matching outfits with my 10-year-old. Rompers were for girls her age, not women mine.

Turns out that was just another rule I’d made up.

Funny thing about imaginary rules: they feel just as real as actual ones... right up until you ignore them.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a black romper to wear.

One of my favorite parts of writing on Substack has been discovering other women whose words make me stop scrolling.

That’s the idea behind “So I Asked...”—a series where I invite writers I admire to answer a handful of questions about midlife, reinvention, and the things we’re finally giving ourselves permission to want. I love seeing how different women, with different stories and different life experiences, arrive at completely different (and often surprisingly similar) truths.

This month’s guest is Laurie Flynn, author of My Menossance.

Laurie and I stumbled across each other here on Substack a while ago, but I knew we were going to get along after she published an essay in April titled “Where Did All My Fucks Go?” (I’ll let you connect the dots on why that one caught my attention.)

Laurie is fifty-three, recently divorced, and in the middle of doing something that sounds equal parts brave and terrifying: moving to Boston and rebuilding her life from scratch. Alongside leading an elementary literacy nonprofit and working as a certified life coach, she writes with remarkable honesty about reinvention, female friendship, and what it actually looks like to start over in midlife. Her work doesn’t romanticize change—it tells the truth about how messy, uncomfortable, and ultimately worthwhile it can be.

What are you not waiting for anymore?
Approval! I spent decades basing my choices on what other people might think of them. Would they understand? Would they agree? Would they still love me if I changed? It’s taken me 53 years, but midlife has finally taught me that I no longer need to wait and ask for permission.

What’s something you’ve stopped trying to prove?
That I can handle anything and everything for everyone at all times. For a long time, being capable was a huge part of my identity. I was the strong one. The reliable one. The one who could carry it all. And I did. But strength without boundaries is just exhaustion in disguise. I don’t need to prove my worth through overfunctioning anymore.

What does reinvention actually look like in real life—not the Instagram version?
Messy. Awkward. Uncertain. Reinvention is rarely glamorous. It looks like taking leaps without guarantees. Trying things that don’t fit. Missing the mark. Starting over and not knowing if you’re building toward something better or just wandering. After my divorce, I moved to Boston and had to build a life from scratch. New routines, new friendships, new places, new versions of myself. There were days it felt exciting, and days it felt profoundly lonely. But that’s the part no one talks about: sometimes you have to get lost to figure out what feels like home.

Where are you taking up more space lately—even if it still feels a little uncomfortable?
In my own voice. In my writing. In my wants. In saying what I actually think instead of softening it to be more palatable to others. In asking for what I need. In letting myself be seen more fully, even when it feels vulnerable. Especially then. And yes, often it does feel a little uncomfortable. But I am learning to sit with that discomfort a little better than I did when I was younger. To acknowledge it and to investigate it a little bit, but I’m done shrinking to avoid discomfort entirely.

What’s something you want more of right now—and aren’t apologizing for?
Connection. Real, in-the-flesh, deep connection. Maybe it’s a remnant of the pandemic isolation. Maybe it’s the strange disorientation of living in a world where so much feels filtered, curated, or hard to trust. But I want more time with real people. Old friends, new friends, family. More travel. More art. More shared meals and long conversations and spontaneous laughter. More moments that remind me I’m alive while I’m living them. Because at the end of the day, those are the things that truly make a life meaningful.

There’s a lot to love in Laurie’s answers, but one sentence keeps bouncing around in my head:

“Strength without boundaries is just exhaustion in disguise.”

That feels like one of those sentences you read once and then catch yourself thinking about three days later.

By the time I got to the end of the interview, I realized every answer was really about the same thing: giving yourself permission. To stop waiting for approval. To stop shrinking. To ask for more.

Which, now that I think about it, feels like a pretty good definition of giving fewer F’s.

Thanks, Laurie, for the reminder.

You can find Laurie at My Menossance, where she writes candidly about midlife, reinvention, and the messy, beautiful process of starting over.

And if there’s someone you’d love to see featured in a future installment of “So I Asked...”, let me know in the comments.

I do a lot of hiring in my day job, so friends often come to me for advice. One thing I always tell them is, "If it isn't a hell yes, it's a hell no."

My friend, who has been having difficulty filling a role on her team, did not appreciate this advice.

But I stand by it. Because enthusiasm matters.

Then it occurred to me that I don't always follow my own advice: I actually spend a lot of time trying to convince people.

I convince people to go on vacations with me.

I convince people to go out for a drink even though they already went out earlier that week.

I convince people to go to the concert even though parking is going to be a pain in the ass.

I convince my coworkers that a change is worth the disruption.

I convince my husband of a lot of things... mostly trips I want to take that he’s... less enthusiastic about.

I spend a lot of time perfecting my pitch, coming up with all the reasons why this particular thing is a great idea.

And I’m fairly persuasive. More often than not, I get people to say yes.

But I’m not actually after yes.

I’m after enthusiasm.

Let’s be honest. I don’t really do casual. I get very excited about the things I’m interested in. One might even say I have zero chill.

And when I’m excited about something, my first instinct is to get everyone else excited too.

I genuinely love introducing people to things I love:

Restaurants.

Travel destinations.

Books.

Music.

Ideas.

If I think you'll enjoy something, I want you there with me. And ideally, I want you to be just as excited about it as I am.

But no matter how persuasive I can be, I can’t manufacture enthusiasm.

I wonder how much time I’ve spent trying to talk people into things they were never that excited about in the first place.

What if all that energy could have gone toward the people who were already excited to be there?

There’s just something different about enthusiasm that comes right out of the gate.

I’m incredibly lucky to be surrounded by people who say, “Hell yes.” And who make it easy for me to say it back.

My friend Caroline absolutely does not like hard rock music. But when I asked her to come with me to see Filter the night before my birthday, she said yes without even looking up the band on Spotify.

When my friend Cori texted and invited Liz and me over for an impromptu BBQ, we both said yes almost immediately. Getting to spend time with friends without planning it days—or even weeks—in advance is a luxury I need more of in my life.

Sometimes the "hell yes" is mutual. My friend Kathleen and I realized we'd both secretly wanted to co-host a podcast, so we decided to just make one. (Check out the first episode if you haven’t already!)

These are just a few examples from the last few weeks, but they’ve helped me notice a pattern.

None of these stories began with convincing.

They began with someone (not always me) saying, “Hey, do you want to...”

And someone else answering, “Absolutely.”

I’m beginning to really appreciate mutual enthusiasm.

That’s not to say that “maybe” is inherently bad. We’re all busy. We all have competing priorities. Life, especially in midlife, is full.

“Maybe” isn’t rude. It’s not rejection. It’s just a different kind of energy.

And maybe I’ve gotten old enough to stop trying to change it.

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There will always be times when I need to persuade people. It’s part of my job and, honestly, part of my personality.

But outside of work, I’m finding myself drawn to something different.

The people who match my enthusiasm.

The people who hear, “Want to...” and are already reaching for their calendars.

I’ve learned that some of the best parts of my life don’t begin with convincing.

They begin with mutual enthusiasm.

One of my favorite parts of publishing 40 and Giving Zero F’s is the conversations that happen afterward—especially with my friend Kathleen, who somehow manages to disagree with me on all the best topics. So we decided to hit record.

In our first episode, we tackle rules and restrictions: why I instinctively push back against them, why Kathleen thrives with structure, and what we can learn from approaching life differently.

Let us know what you think—and what topic we should debate next.

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Some couples spend a lot of time curled up on the couch together, binge-watching shows. My husband and I are not that couple.

Neither of us watches much TV, and when we do commit to a show, we move at a glacial pace.

Take Yellowstone. We’ve been watching it for well over a year, and we’re only on season two.

Two weeks ago, we were both home on a Friday night, and I had requested a low-key evening. Once our daughters were in bed, we settled onto the couch to watch an episode or two of Yellowstone in an effort to slowly catch up with the rest of the country.

Then the TV betrayed us.

As I scrolled toward Peacock, a pop-up for the USA-Paraguay World Cup match appeared.

“Oh, why don’t we watch a few minutes of the game?” I offered.

Not because I like soccer. I don’t. But it felt like a distinctly patriotic thing to do.

We’d watch for a few minutes, maybe see the Americans score, and then get back to Yellowstone.

Spoiler: We never watched Yellowstone.

We watched the entire game.

And I, a woman who does not enjoy watching sports, was enthralled.

Part of the fun was the sheer absurdity of the situation. We don’t have cable, so we spent the first half watching the game on Telemundo because it was the only free stream we could find.

I speak a tiny bit of Spanish, and my soccer knowledge comes almost entirely from Ted Lasso and Bend It Like Beckham.

Somehow, I still knew what was going on.

Eventually, we found an English-language stream, but by then I was invested.

You might be thinking, “Big deal. She watched the Americans win a World Cup match even though she’s not a soccer fan. So did a lot of Americans that night.”

Fair.

What surprised me wasn’t that the U.S. won.

It was how much I enjoyed watching.

Because somewhere along the way, a preference had become part of my identity.

It wasn’t that I didn’t particularly enjoy watching sports. It was that I had become a person who didn’t watch sports.

And once something becomes part of your identity, you stop questioning it.

To be fair, I’ve never been vehemently anti-sports. I actually enjoy sporting events in person. Baseball at almost any stadium is better than baseball on TV, right?

But watching sports at home has never been my thing. Outside of the occasional Super Bowl obligation, I always felt like I had better options.

A few months earlier, I almost didn't join my family to watch the USA-Canada men's hockey game. Hockey has never interested me.

But once I sat down, I was hooked.

Which led me to a bigger question:

What else have I been missing out on simply because I decided it wasn’t for me?

But it’s not just sports.

The downside of being a decisive person is that once I decide something isn’t for me, I tend to treat that decision as permanent.

Twenty-one-year-old Amanda made a surprising number of decisions on behalf of forty-one-year-old Amanda.

Take whiskey.

I can’t remember how or when I decided I didn’t like whiskey, but I can tell you exactly when I realized I loved it.

In 2018, my husband and I visited Ireland, where everyone assumes the redheaded American is obviously Irish. (Joke’s on them: not Irish and not a natural redhead.)

We toured the Jameson and Bushmills distilleries, both of which included tastings. I took my first sip, convinced I wasn’t going to like it.

It burned, sure.

But it was delicious.

These days, I’m a huge fan of whiskey and happily drink it neat, which is probably a more stereotypically masculine way to drink whiskey than most men you know.

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So when I accidentally spend a Friday night watching the World Cup instead of Yellowstone—and love it—I start to wonder:

What assumptions about myself am I carrying around that are decades out of date?

The older I get, the more interested I am in questioning the things I’ve decided about myself.

Maybe I like watching sports.

Maybe I like whiskey.

Maybe there are a dozen other things I’ve written off simply because twenty-year-old Amanda made a ruling and forty-one-year-old Amanda never bothered to appeal it.

That doesn’t mean every decision deserves a second look.

My husband still insists I’d enjoy baking if I gave it a chance.

But baking has too many rules, and I don’t like rules.

After careful consideration, I’m comfortable reporting that some decisions remain correct.

“Why is each song like 8 minutes long?” my 10-year-old asked.

“Because that’s what Dave Matthews does,” I said. We were driving to our friend’s house, and I was giving my daughter a crash course in one of the bands that defined my teens and twenties.

“I’m just really excited about the party bus!” she said with a squeal.

She paid no attention to the violin solo in “Crush,” which I maintain is one of the best things Dave Matthews ever recorded.

A few months ago, two of my best friends, Liz and Cori, saw that Dave Matthews was coming to one of the big outdoor venues near us. We immediately decided to go, but then someone wondered if we should bring our kids—or at least our oldest kids, all fifth graders in school together.

I figured my daughter would enjoy seeing a headliner show. She’d been to a few cover bands, and she’d seen the National Symphony Orchestra, but never a “real” concert.

It didn’t matter to me that she doesn’t listen to Dave. I wanted her to have the concert experience.

Once we’d decided to bring the kids, Cori’s husband suggested renting a party bus. The logic was sound: no parking, no designated drivers, and sitting in post-concert traffic would be significantly more enjoyable.

So that's how my 10-year-old daughter ended up on a party bus, sipping sparkling water and eating sushi on the way to her first real concert.

The concert itself wasn't amazing. Dave was Dave, but I've seen him enough times over the years to know this wasn't one of the more memorable shows.

But here's what was amazing: how my daughter bounded up the endless stairs to the lawn the moment we got inside and could hear the music. How she and her friends immediately wanted to explore. How she looked with a glowstick wrapped around her head like a crown as the sun went down.

Despite the set list not being my favorite, it was fun to sway along to “#41” the same way I did in college. Except this time I was with friends I met through my kids, who have long since graduated from the category of “mom friends” and are now simply some of my favorite people.

Despite a decent number of kids at the show, the crowd seemed to have aged right along with Dave. Younger me, with better knees and more stamina, might have been horrified by the sea of rental lawn chairs scattered across the lawn. Current me was wondering whether we should have invested—the damned things had cupholders.

But even the people sitting in those chairs jumped to their feet as soon as Dave started playing “Crash.”

Our kids looked a little surprised. It was hard to explain that some songs are bigger than the set list.

All too soon, the concert was over, and it was time to wade back to the party bus with thousands of other people. We were relieved to find it still parked in the closest lot.

For approximately thirty seconds, everything was going according to plan.

Then our driver informed us that the sliding door would not close.

And thus the real adventure began.

No functioning door meant we couldn’t take the bus on the highway. Which is how we ended up stranded in a random parking lot while a mechanic was summoned to perform emergency party bus surgery.

Everyone was tired and ready to go home. But without a functioning door, we were stuck.

My friend Liz immediately started researching our options. Were there any diners within walking distance? Any place still open? The best we could come up with was a Buffalo Wild Wings twelve minutes away.

We were alarmingly close to turning a Dave Matthews concert into a late-night Buffalo Wild Wings adventure when the mechanic finally got the door working well enough for us to head home.

In the weeks leading up to the concert, Liz, Cori, and I had joked that the party bus was more exciting to our kids than the concert itself. But driving along back roads with a breeze coming through a half-broken door, like we were passengers in a UPS truck, wasn't how I imagined the night going.

Our kids will probably remember the broken door more than the concert.

We didn’t find a concert that our kids wanted to go to. We found a concert we wanted to go to, and we decided to bring our kids along.

But years from now, I doubt any of us will remember the set list.

We’ll remember the party bus.

We’ll remember the broken door.

And maybe my daughter will remember that before I was her mom, I was a woman who loved live music, overpriced drinks, and singing along to songs that were already old when she was born.

The woman on the dance floor was celebrating her 40th birthday.

I know this because she was wearing a black sash that read: “Halfway to 80.”

She was swaying to the music, her drink sloshing precariously close to the edge of the glass as she moved, and seemed to be having a fantastic time.

Which is good, because I spent the rest of the evening having a one-sided argument with her sash.

I encountered the birthday girl on a recent girls’ trip with my friend Caroline, a 3-night cruise to Key West and Nassau. It was the perfect quick getaway to relax, recharge, and make some questionable decisions.

Most of those questionable decisions involved spending more time than necessary at the ship’s “nightclub.”

“Nightclub” is in quotes for a reason.

We were sailing on the Celebrity Reflection, which is known for being a little more upscale and the clientele is a little older. It’s not a party ship. It’s a ship where people order martinis, attend trivia, and are generally in bed at a reasonable hour.

The “nightclub” was really just the Sky Lounge with a DJ and a dance floor from around 11 PM until... well, I’m not sure because we only made it until 1 AM.

Anyone on the ship looking for nightlife ended up there because it was the only thing happening. It was the DJ beats or your stateroom.

And I dragged Caroline there every single night. Not because the music was good (it wasn't), or because we were determined to dance (although we did), but because the people-watching was incredible.

On a ship where the average age definitely skewed older, the nightclub became a fascinating social experiment.

By midnight, it felt like everyone on the dance floor was either between 18 and 30 or over 50. Minus the birthday girl celebrating 40, of course. Watching everyone share the same dance floor was endlessly entertaining.

And if I’m being honest, I was wondering whether I’d get any attention.

Not because I wanted to dance with anyone or have someone buy me a drink. (Come on, we all had the unlimited drink package. Or at least most people on the dance floor were acting like they did.)

But a smile? A hello? Maybe a little harmless flirting to remind me that I’m still sexy as hell at 41?

I think this is a fairly standard part of any girls’ trip. Hanging out with my friend was the priority. But if a Chris Hemsworth lookalike happened to make flirty eye contact along the way, even better.

Which is completely reasonable until you look around and realize that almost all the other women in the club are quite literally half your age.

No wrinkles. No stretch marks. Their metabolism is probably still excellent.

And for a moment, I found myself comparing.

As much as I talk about confidence, it was disheartening to feel a little invisible surrounded by women twenty years younger than me.

Especially when the only man who actively tried to flirt looked less like Chris Hemsworth and more like Chris Hemsworth after 40 long years at sea.

But after my brief pity party, I realized something.

Why was I acting like we were competing in the first place?

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Looking around that dance floor, I had somehow turned age into a ranking system. As if the women in their twenties were automatically ahead of me simply because they were younger.

But younger isn’t ahead.

It’s just younger.

Sure, they probably have better knees. Their metabolism is definitely better.

But I wasn’t actually looking at those women, wishing I could trade lives with them.

I don’t want to be 25 again.

My twenties were fun. I made great friends, had great experiences, and made plenty of questionable decisions. But I wouldn’t trade the life I’ve built at 41 for any of it.

In my twenties, I was worried about competing with other twenty-somethings.

At 41, I realized it was never a competition. We’re all just standing on the same dance floor at different stages of life.

At 25, I probably would have cared whether I was the prettiest girl in the room.

At 41, I care a lot more about whether I’m having fun.

The birthday girl with the black sash might just be doing her birthday wrong.

Why do we act like turning 40 is bad news?

We’ll never be 25 again, and honestly, I wouldn't want to be.

If halfway to 80 looks like girls’ trips, late nights, financial freedom, deep friendships, confidence, and not caring quite so much what strangers think, maybe we’re underselling it.

By the way, the Chris Hemsworth lookalike did eventually smile at me once or twice.

Which was nice.

In daylight, though, he looked a lot less like Chris Hemsworth.

There’s this meme I keep seeing online: “Casually suggesting a trip with me is dangerous. You’ve got about two minutes to clarify if you’re joking because I’m already looking at flights.”

I’m sure I keep seeing it because it’s me.

Some women talk about taking a girls’ trip someday. I treat them like recurring calendar appointments.

And the best part? Once you’ve pulled off one girls’ trip, planning the next one gets a whole lot easier.

Ask my friend Amanda. This year will be year four of “Amanda x2 Trip.”

The first time Amanda and I traveled together, it was under the guise of a “writing retreat.” AKA we both brought our laptops and writing projects to an all-inclusive resort in Punta Cana for a long weekend.

To be fair, Amanda is a published author and used the weekend to finish a novel.

I was finalizing a draft of my own (currently unpublished) novel and, because I’m crazy—or old school—I printed the entire thing and schlepped it around in a giant binder so I could make edits by hand with my trusty red pen.

And no, the binder never slipped into the pool. I promise.

Amanda and I still write and/or edit on our annual girls’ trips.

The last one was a trip to Barcelona and Mallorca. While it poured outside our hotel room in Mallorca, I wrote at least one Substack essay. Amanda, meanwhile, taught herself the “Fate of Ophelia” dance.

In her defense, Life of a Showgirl had just dropped the week before.

Honestly, that may be the only time I’ve ever been the “serious writer friend” in this relationship. Amanda is usually the responsible one. I’m usually the bad influence.

And by bad influence, I mean our girls’ trips are full of great stories and maybe some questionable decisions.

We stay up too late. We eat too much. We spend money. (I’m good at finding a travel deal, but we still spend money.) I have been known to drink a bit. Amanda doesn’t drink, but she can absolutely hang. We've been known to end up in conversations, dance floors, and situations that were never part of the original itinerary.

But I don’t treat these trips as a break from reality. They are part of my reality. Something that’s important to me, so I make room for it.

For a few days, I’m not someone’s wife, someone’s mom, or someone’s ride to dance practice.

I’m just me.

And honestly, I think that’s part of why the trips matter so much.

Amanda and I live in different states. Between kids, schedules, responsibilities, and everything else that comes with adulthood, there is always something competing for our time.

The easy thing would be to stay in touch through text messages and Instagram likes.

That’s not enough for me.

The stories and memories are what sustain the friendship between trips. Especially for a friendship like the one Amanda and I have, where we don’t live near each other anymore. We might only see each other once or twice a year.

A few days together in a foreign country gives us another year of shared references, inside jokes, and stories to revisit. It’s relationship maintenance disguised as a vacation.

And these trips aren’t necessarily easy to pull off. Coordinating schedules alone feels like a military operation. Then there’s picking a destination, booking flights, finding a hotel, and convincing everyone involved that yes, this is actually happening.

Luckily, Amanda mostly lets me plan, which is another reason we’ve made it to year four.

The logistics are annoying. The trip is worth it.

To be clear, not every girls’ trip needs a passport. Some of my friends do annual weekends at a lake house a few hours away. Some rent an Airbnb and never leave it. The destination matters a lot less than making the time.

When this essay drops, I’ll be about to start a girls’ trip with another friend, Caroline—our very first one together.

We’re doing a quick weekend cruise out of Florida to Key West and the Bahamas. It was relatively affordable, and the short duration made it easier to fit into our schedules.

I’m very confident we’re going to come home with some amazing stories. And almost definitely a few questionable decisions.

At this stage of life, nobody is handing us free time. Nobody is creating these moments for us. If I want the friendship, the memories, the stories, the version of myself who still says yes to adventures, I have to create them myself.

That’s why girls’ trips are a non-negotiable.

Not because I need a break from my life.

Because they are part of my life.

And they are absolutely worth building around.

One of my favorite things about writing on Substack is meeting interesting women with perspectives worth sharing.

So I Asked... is a series that brings those conversations to all of us. And for the first installment, I wanted to start with someone whose perspective I genuinely admire.

Nat Sang, author of The Midlife Reset, and I met through Substack, but what struck me immediately was that she doesn’t seem particularly interested in waiting until she feels ready. After a corporate layoff upended her career, she started building something new—sharing honest reflections on reinvention, purpose, relationships, and life in your 50s. While many of us spend time waiting for the right moment, Nat seems to have made a habit of stepping toward things that scare her a little. Whether she’s writing, building a business, or reimagining what’s possible in midlife, she consistently chooses growth over comfort.

That made her the perfect person to ask about confidence, purpose, reinvention, and what comes next.

What are you not waiting for anymore?

I’m no longer waiting for the “right time” to do something. It may sound reckless, but for me, I’ve learned that it’s an excuse I use to avoid leaving my comfort zone. Waiting to feel comfortable or ready is the surest way to remain stuck.

What feels easier right now than it used to be?

I’m much more comfortable being myself now. Six months of opening myself up to complete strangers has given me the confidence to embrace life in many ways. This means saying no to the things I don’t want to do, or that bring me no joy, and saying yes to the things that scare me a little but push me to grow.

Where are you taking up more space lately—even if it still feels a little uncomfortable?
Creating written content is my primary passion. This involves editing my novel, writing and growing my Substack, and developing my 7-R Reset™ Method. I also really love doing podcasts and live guest interviews. Every single one of these things exists outside my comfort zone, but I enjoy the challenge.

What’s actually worth your time and energy right now—and what’s not?
I focus on the positive aspects of things, regardless of what they are. My main focus these days is building the second half of my life the way I want to live it. I’m really interested in creating something that gives me purpose, leaves me fulfilled, and helps others. Focusing on staying healthy, both mentally and physically, are key elements. Everything else falls into place. I don’t have the energy to look back and dwell on the past, specifically the layoff. I still get calls almost daily telling me it was unfair, etc., but I’ve moved on.

What’s something you want more of right now—and aren’t apologizing for?
I want to embrace female empowerment in ALL aspects. This means wearing the dress, cooking the meal, and being the girly girl. I refuse to let my grays come in, and I’m going to spend the time fighting gravity. Some days, I want to embrace the 1950s Grace Kelly/Betty Draper version of a woman. Other days, I continue to be a badass entrepreneur aspiring to build an empire. No apologies for either version, because the best version of me is a combination of both.

What stood out to me across all of Nat’s answers was a refusal to wait.

Not waiting for the right time.
Not waiting to feel ready.
Not waiting for permission to reinvent herself.
Not waiting for someone else to define what a fulfilled life should look like.

As someone who has written more than once about not putting your life on hold, that message hit home.

You can find Nat at The Midlife Reset, where she writes about reinvention, relationships, purpose, and building the next chapter on your own terms.

And if there’s someone you’d love to see featured in a future installment of So I Asked..., let me know in the comments.

I caught the sign out of the corner of my eye as I was driving my daughter to a sleepover: “Flower Stand Open.”

I was headed in the opposite direction, but immediately started wondering if I should stop on my way back.

By the time I dropped my oldest off, I had already informed my youngest daughter (who was just along for the ride) that we were making a flower detour on the way home.

The flower stand is tiny, self-serve, and a little unpredictable, which somehow makes it even more exciting when you catch it on the right day. It sells bouquets from a local flower farm, and you pay via Venmo. What’s available depends on what’s in season and what’s blooming that week.

That day, there was a beautiful mix of spring flowers, including my favorite: peonies. I have a peony bush at home, but mine had already come and gone.

So for $25 out of my Venmo account (which honestly feels a bit like fake money), I came home with a beautiful handmade bouquet that made me disproportionately happy.

As I drove home with the flowers and my 6-year-old daughter, who had plenty of questions about the flower stand, I realized two things.

First, self-serve flower stands are genius.

And second, I love that I can just buy myself flowers.

I wanted flowers, so I bought flowers.

Maybe that sounds obvious. I’m a grown-ass woman with some disposable income, so I can buy whatever I damn well please.

But honestly, I think a lot of women forget that.

Especially when it comes to things that serve no purpose other than making us happy.

Flowers aren’t practical. They don’t solve a problem. They aren’t crossing something off a to-do list. They’re just beautiful.

I don’t need to wait for someone else to buy them for me (although I’d be remiss not to acknowledge that my husband does buy me flowers). I can just treat myself.

Driving by the flower stand was a good reminder.

In a similar vein, one night last week I was supposed to meet a friend for a drink after work, and she canceled at the last minute.

So I decided to take myself out for a drink instead.

I ended up at a delightful coffee shop and cocktail bar, grabbed a spot by the window, ordered a cocktail and a snack, and enjoyed an hour to myself.

A younger version of me probably would have just gone home. Instead, I kept the date.

Neither of these was planned. The flower stand was impromptu. The cocktail was a pivot when my original plans fell through.

But both made an ordinary day feel a little more special.

One of my favorite parts of midlife is realizing you can just say yes to those moments.

You can buy the flowers.

You can keep the date, even when you’re the only one showing up.

You can choose the cocktail by the window instead of rushing home to do laundry or respond to email.

I think a lot of women spend years treating enjoyment like something that has to be earned first. We have no problem spending money on things that are useful, productive, or necessary. Our kids. Our homes. Our careers. Our responsibilities. But something purely because it would make an ordinary Tuesday feel a little prettier or a little more fun? That can still feel indulgent.

And yet, some of the moments that have made my life feel richest lately have come from these tiny decisions to stop postponing joy. The flowers on the counter. The cocktail by the window. The decision to make an otherwise ordinary day feel just a little bit special.

Not every good thing needs a plan.

Sometimes it’s enough to buy the flowers. Order the cocktail. Say yes to the small thing that makes an ordinary day feel a little brighter.

I’m finally at the age where “because I wanted to” feels like a complete sentence.

And I’m increasingly interested in the kind of life where I just buy the flowers.

I’m not a natural redhead.

But at this point, it feels dishonest to call myself anything else.

The curvy redhead with expressive eyes and strong opinions is so deeply who I am that most people assume it’s who I’ve always been.

It isn’t.

I became her instead.

I’ve been dyeing my hair for so long that very few people know my natural hair color anymore. (It’s a lovely ashy brown. Both my daughters inherited it.) And while I pull off red well, I’m probably not fooling anyone. Not with the darker eyebrows and the several-hours-every-ten-weeks salon commitment required to maintain my current coppery situation.

I remember the first time I dyed my hair. I was 16. My friends and I bought box dye from CVS, and I chose a lovely auburn. Except after I dyed it, the red barely showed up against my naturally darker hair.

And obviously, if nobody could tell I had dyed my hair, then what was even the point?

So I did what any reasonable 16-year-old would do and bought another box. The result was bright red hair that looked… deeply unfortunate.

When my mom got home from work and saw what I had done, she sighed the sigh of a woman who immediately understood this was now going to cost professional money. She made me an appointment with her stylist, who had been cutting and coloring her hair for years but, up until that moment, had only been trusted to cut mine.

My hair was salvaged. And thus began a lifelong love affair with hair dye.

Over the next 25 years, I cycled through just about every major hair color. Brunette. Blonde (honestly, not bad, but the maintenance nearly killed me). Every possible variation of red, from copper to violet, with enough highlights and lowlights to keep several salons in business.

But for the last 15 years, it’s only been red.

Somewhere along the line, I decided that red was who I wanted to be.

Recently, I read a piece by Grace Sarah about continuing to color her gray hair, despite all the messaging women get about aging naturally. She wrote that she wasn’t ready to become a different person yet.

And it made me realize something: I no longer think of being a redhead as a beauty choice. It feels like part of my identity now. Because the funny thing about choosing a version of yourself long enough is that eventually she just becomes real.

I didn’t “discover” that I was secretly a redhead deep inside. I became one through repetition and choice. Appointment by appointment. Shade by shade. Year after year.

We talk about authenticity like it’s something you uncover naturally and effortlessly. But I think sometimes authenticity is constructed.

There’s a tendency to treat women’s beauty rituals as shallow or frivolous. The hair appointments. The makeup. The facials. As if caring how you look automatically makes you less serious.

But I think choosing how you present yourself can actually be a form of authorship.

Sometimes, becoming yourself starts with deciding how you want to be seen.

Maybe your hair color isn’t as central to your identity as being a redhead is to mine.

But most of us are curating ourselves in ways both large and small. Our tastes. Our boundaries. Our style. Our homes. The lives we want to build.

Midlife is when we finally realize we’re allowed to do that intentionally.

And getting to choose is its own kind of power.

Every time I go to the salon, I ask Emily — my stylist for years now, who I’ve followed to multiple salons — what we can do that’s just a little bit different.

I want to stay red. But maybe slightly brighter. Slightly richer. Slightly more coppery. Something subtle that probably nobody notices except me.

I guess that 16-year-old who bought a second box of hair dye because the first one wasn’t dramatic enough is still inside me somewhere, thinking: what’s the point if people can’t tell?

And every time I leave the salon, I post a picture on my Instagram story and tag Emily so she gets credit for her work, usually with some variation of:

“Thanks for making me feel like myself again.”

Which is objectively a funny thing to say about a hair color I wasn’t born with.

But maybe that’s the point.

We spend so much time treating the things women choose — the hair color, the lipstick, the clothes, the rituals, even the confidence itself — as somehow less authentic than the things that came naturally.

But choosing counts too.

I may not have been born a redhead.

But I became her anyway.