AARP Hearing Center
Monica Garwood
Welcome to Ethels Tell All, where the writers behind The Ethel newsletter share their personal stories related to the joys and challenges of aging. Come back Wednesday each week for the latest piece, exclusively on AARP Members Edition.
When he called and said, “It’s Abe. I’d like to take you to dinner,” I was stunned.
We knew each other from the athletic center. He worked with a trainer in the mornings and nicknamed me “Curly.” He is in his 90s, charming and warm, recently widowed. But dinner?
More Ways to Benefit
- Related Benefit 1
- Related Benefit 2
- Related Benefit 3
- Related Benefit 4
- Related Benefit 5
I am 71, full of energy, in good health and with a serious case of travel lust. So my knee-jerk reaction was honesty. “As friends?” I asked immediately. There was a pause. Then he agreed.
“And just so you know,” I added, “my mother is more fun than I am. She’s in her hundreds, looks 20 years younger, and she’s completely with it.”
Abe laughed. “Then I’ll take you both.”
The dinner was pleasant, the kind of evening that feels almost old-fashioned. My mother, seated between us, was clearly charmed. When it was time to leave, Abe struggled to stand and steady himself. My mother rose from her chair with surprising ease. On the drive home she said, matter-of-factly, “We’re never going to hear from him again.”
Ethels Tell All
Writers behind The Ethel newsletter aimed at women 55+ share their personal stories related to the joys and challenges of aging.
And then we did. Later that same evening, Abe called and said he wanted to see me alone next time, “for privacy.” My stomach dropped, not because he had done anything wrong, but because I could feel how easily a simple dinner can shift into expectation.
I care about people, and I especially understand what loneliness can look like at this age. Abe does not have family nearby. I told him I was happy to be friends and that he could reach out if he ever needed help. But I also knew I needed to keep our connection in the lane of a platonic friendship. At this stage of my life, I am learning that compassion and boundaries can coexist.
That realization has shaped everything about my social life here.
Caring for my mother in South Florida, I have found myself building friendships in two directions at once: the ones she and I share together, and the ones I know I will someday need on my own.
When I first came down to help my mother, I assumed my days would be full enough. Doctor appointments, errands, medications, logistics. What I did not anticipate was the quiet social reset.
My home base is New York. Here, I was starting over.
Making friends later in life is different than it was at 30 or even 50. Many people already have established circles that stretch back decades. At the same time, many are navigating profound losses: partners, siblings, lifelong friends. Illness and death quietly reshape social landscapes.
People are both settled and unmoored.
In South Florida, however, there is one advantage. Happy hour might as well be a civic institution. My mother had already befriended bartenders long before I arrived. At one seafood restaurant, the bartender knows her by name and once poured her a drink she declared was “three drinks in one” — high praise, since she is vigilant about not being shorted.
We sit at the bar. She turns and talks to the person on her right. I turn and talk to the person on my left. Neither of us feels ignored or slighted.
We are both social. We both enjoy strangers. We are secure enough not to compete. Bringing her into rooms like this feels natural. It gives her joy, and it opens doors. Conversations that begin over discounted appetizers have led to shared stories, exchanged numbers and occasional plans. There is something comforting about knowing that if you are willing to turn your head and say "hello," connection is still possible.
But as much as I include my mother, I also know something that shapes my choices now. She is 102.
I have never married. I do not have children or grandchildren. My primary home is elsewhere. I understand, in a way I did not decades ago, that deep friendships do not materialize overnight.
They are cultivated slowly, over shared interests and repeated encounters. They are what remain when circumstances change. That awareness has made me more intentional. So I have begun building a parallel social life.
I took up tennis and joined the local tennis community. Walking onto the court alone the first time felt like entering a high school cafeteria midyear. Everyone seemed to know each other. I almost went back to my car. But tennis has its own shorthand. You rotate partners. You compliment good shots. You laugh at bad ones. Familiarity grows, rally by rally.
Now there are names I recognize, games I am invited into and texts about upcoming matches. I also attend lectures and discussion groups on topics that genuinely interest me. In those rooms, I am not someone’s daughter or caregiver. I am simply a curious participant. Afterward, conversations spill into the hallway. “What did you think?” turns into coffee plans. Shared curiosity becomes a bridge.
Faith has played a role, too. By bringing my mother to synagogue, we have built community together. But I have also deepened connections independently, understanding that spiritual communities often become emotional anchors in ways you do not anticipate until you need them.
None of this happened accidentally. I had to decide to show up, sometimes tired, sometimes unsure, because I know that friendships strong enough to hold you in grief or transition take time.
That is the quiet truth beneath all of this. I am not only building a social life. I am building support.
For now, I bring my mother to dinners and happy hours where the bartender greets her like a celebrity. We sit side by side, turning outward toward strangers without fear of losing each other’s attention.
But I also lace up my tennis shoes and walk into lecture halls alone, planting seeds for a future that will eventually look different.
Friendship at this stage of life is not casual. It is intentional. It requires vulnerability, initiative and sometimes the humility of being the new person in the room.
It is also an act of hope, loving the present fully while quietly preparing for what comes next.
AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.
AARP Membership
Join AARP for only $15 per year with automatic renewal. Get instant access to members-only products and hundreds of benefits, a free second membership, and a subscription to AARP The Magazine.
You Might Also Like