Several years ago, I was at a dinner in New York with work colleagues.  We were at an Italian restaurant, beautifully decorated with a Tuscany flair.  We sat at a long table, about 20 of us.  As is typical with large gatherings, it was easier to converse with those closest to me, rather than attempt to wade into the rushing stream of multiple conversations.  I ended up chatting with my new manager, seated to my left.  I’ll call her Janet.  She was 50-ish, attractive, and funny.  She and I shared a little about our careers and the individual paths that led to working for this company.  I had more years on most of the people at the table, both in age and experience.  Janet was closer to my age.  I knew this because she whispered it to me during the salad course. 

Our server was a young woman who looked to be in her twenties.  She was a no-fuss beauty, with very little makeup and a natural glow, which could have been perspiration — given how she hustled – but lovely perspiration.  After she had taken everyone’s dinner orders, she asked Janet if we’d like more wine for the table.  Yes, please. 

As we waited for the wine and the entrees, I fussed with the napkin on my lap and Janet freshened her lipstick.  When she was satisfied, she snapped her compact mirror closed, leaned toward me, and whispered, “I just wanna punch her.” 

I looked around the table.  “Who?” I asked, confused. 

“Her.” Janet said and jabbed her lipstick in the direction of our server, who was deftly weaving her way around the tables on her way to the wine bar.  Her glossy dark hair bounced in a ponytail.

“Why?” What happened?” I asked.  

 Janet huffed. “Look at her. She’s dazzling. I used to be dazzling.” 

“Oh.”  I nodded.  “Then I can see why you’d want to take a swing at her.” 

Janet scooted her chair back and waved a hand over her mid-section.  “Look at this!  It’s like a flat tire.”  She patted the underside of her jaw with the back of her hand.  “And when the HELL did all this happen?”

“When you weren’t looking,” I said.   I knew what Janet was getting at.  One day you’re turning heads and before you know it, you’re turning up the thermostat.   But life is fair.  It happens to all of us. 

I watched our server dart around the dining room like a hummingbird.  It was impressive.  I turned to Janet.  “You can’t begrudge her, you know.  We had our day.   Now it’s her turn.  Let her have it.” I waved my hand, dismissing our passing glory like a buzzing fly.

Janet cocked a finger at me.  “You know, I was gorgeous.  GORGEOUS.  Skinny.”  She drank the last swallow of wine in her glass.  She was quiet for a moment, then it seemed to dawn on her.  The impartiality of time. “You’re right.  It’s her turn now.  Her day. I just hope she realizes it.”  She shrugged. “Well, go get ‘em girl!”  She said this with great enthusiasm and a few heads at the table turned our way.  What’s up over there?

After a while, our server returned with a couple of helpers.  We watched them skillfully remove salad plates and place hot, heaping plates of Pasta all’Arrabiata in front of us.  They refilled our water and our wine and scurried off to the next service.  The energy.

Janet looked down at her plate as if it were a cake filled with candles and she was about to blow them out.  “You know, she’ll be our age someday,” she said. 

“Yup,” I agreed.  This seemed to give her a boost. 

“This pasta looks fantastic!” She gushed. “I’m leaving that girl a big fat tip.” 

After dinner, a small group of us lingered on the street outside the restaurant, reluctant to end the evening.  After all – NEW YORK.  We were aglow with good wine and possibilities.  And I wondered, as we stood there lively and handsome in our dressed-for-dinner clothes, if the elderly man walking past us with his old dog felt the desire to punch us.