Friendship may be sorcery.

 I happen to live in a neighbourhood with a couple of retirement villages around, so I see old people, mostly old women quite often. They are fabulous. My favourite one of them has curly, grey hair that reminds me of Sally Spectra from “The Bold & The Beautiful,” drives a German SUV, wears different shades of red lipstick and dark Prada sunglasses. At least that is her usual look when I see her. I have always enjoyed the company of old women because I find both their sweetness and their fire endearing. An added bonus is that they usually have great stories to tell and are never in a hurry, something I envy. Despite all my admiration for these young ladies, I am not attached to the idea of growing old enough to be a fabulous old woman. I do however I imagine I would be one who walks with a fancy and well detailed cane, rocks a thick cloud of grey hair and still wears great quality textiles I purchased in midlife.

People scoff at me for not desiring to reach old age, sometimes, as if it’s a kind of moral failure on my part instead of just another personal philosophy. I have even had romantic partners refer to it as if it is a genre of wickedness I practice, much to my amusement. The real reason though is that I am more concerned with the quality of my days than I am with their quantity. I do not need my life to be long, I just need it to be on my terms and filled with wonder. The idea of there needing to be a decline of my faculties first before I can welcome my inevitable death is just not appealing to me in the way that it is to other people.

Being in my early thirties means my friends and I are still in a peak transitionary period of our lives to date. Some have married and while others headed there, changing or moving up in their careers, moving countries, making the animate and inanimate. We celebrate these milestones together and cheer each other on as we pursue all these and others. But I am more intrigued by the less tangible transitions. The ones linked to character and soul and those requiring new levels of courage to even attempt.

Friendship is a central part of my life and I hold my friends in the highest regard. They have contributed to my life in ineffable ways and I am enamoured with them. The most obvious effect of my love for them on my life has been the expansion of my capacities. It makes me do more than I ever thought myself capable of. I am more gentle, more willing to try and at times more willing to reconsider even my most fundamental philosophies. I suspect that friendship may in fact be sorcery.

It seems witnessing my friends grow into these brave and beautiful people is making me grow mildly curious about old age. I am so delighted by watching them become brave and not only going after what they want but really begin to like themselves. To become aware of the parts of themselves that they do not particularly like and either doing something about these or accept them, whichever one is necessary.

Watching them learn to forgive themselves for choices they are learning were not best for them and realising that they are free and can make different choices now. Learning to love their families in healthier ways by communicating and enforcing their boundaries and not feel nauseous with apprehension after.

This phase of our lives requires posturing at times. To progress at work there are certain ideals and behaviours expected of you to prove yourself capable of the next level of responsibility and the accompanying remuneration. At home there are expectations of what we should be and achieve based on what has been “invested” in us and what we have achieved already. Noble as some of these expectations are, sometimes they are simply not in our best interests.

I suppose I imagine that this delight of watching these small and big acts of defiance, self-acceptance and the relinquishment of perfection will only intensify with age. I am bewitched by the versions of ourselves that give significantly less fucks and maybe that is worth lingering around longer.