Magazine Features

Three years ago, I finished writing what I thought would be my debut novel—a charming story about four women in an over-55 community who bond over mah-jongg, children, grandchildren, and the occasional pickleball tournament. It was sweet, sentimental, and a love letter to the joys of aging gracefully.

I had just typed “The End” when my real life blew up in my face.

My partner of 25 years was cheating on me. I found out in the most humiliating way imaginable: he mistakenly had a public—not private—conversation with his mistress on Facebook. For everyone to see. My granddaughters, my children, my friends—even the neighbors in my own over-55 community.

Cue emotional whiplash. One moment I was basking in fictional friendship; the next, I was reeling from betrayal. And not just one betrayal—multiple. It turned out my 76-year-old partner had a roster of mistresses. I know. Let that sink in.

So what does a 70-year-old woman do when her world collapses? Well, I threw out the sweet little novel and started over. But not right away. First, I spent three months hiding under the covers, crying, making friends with Ben & Jerry’s, and binge-watching Dateline episodes where wives murder their cheating husbands. I emerged from my bed for food and to shower. The eating came often, but the showering, not as much. I ignored the slew of well-meaning friends who texted, called, and emailed. Relentlessly.

Eventually, I turned to the internet in search of answers. Before all this, my typical searches were innocent enough: “How to treat a neck rash,” “Home remedies for vertigo,” or “Does castor oil actually reduce wrinkles?” But now, I was Googling things like, “Why would a man in his late 70s risk a 25-year relationship?” And do you know what that trusty internet told me?

Brace yourself: According to the Institute for Family Studies, men in their 70s have the highest infidelity rate (26%), and it stays high well into their 80s. Yes, 80s. I’ll pause while you catch your breath.

Now, this might sound a bit braggy, but bear with me. I’m attractive. I’ve kept myself fit. And I’m what people politely call “affable.” So naturally, I questioned everything—myself, our relationship, and what would come next, once I was finally able to drag myself out of bed.

But here’s the thing about women in our so-called golden years: we don’t crumble. We do get out of bed. We pivot. We write new stories. We reclaim the narrative. I stopped blaming his cheating on my sagging arms or the lines on my face. You know why? Because it was his weakness.

I am still a vital, interesting woman, with a world of life experience—and even more yet to come. I’m learning how to drive an ATV, I’m starting a podcast with my new bestie, I’m working on a second book, and I may even start dating. Or at least start Googling “senior online dating”.

And I’m not saying you have to throw out your cheating partner. Maybe your relationship can grow stronger after infidelity. I’ve heard it happens, and if it does—brava. I applaud you.

In my case, though, it was a declaration:

That aging doesn’t mean settling.
That betrayal doesn’t mean bitterness.
That heartbreak, even at 70, can be a beginning—not an end.

And that Facebook, ironically, is still good for something. I’ve widened my social circle, embraced new opportunities, and—most importantly—I found me again. A strong, independent woman who can hold her head high and face whatever the world has to offer, even at 70.

The water in my Golden Pond is clearer now. And I dive right in and do my water aerobics.

And by gosh, I wrote a novel.
A revenge novel.
And yes—I gave him a copy.

RED BOOTS, USELESS COOKIE CUTTERS, AND ONE VERY UNFORTUNATE JUMP

When I became a grandmother for the first time, 24 years ago, I was given a gift from a dear friend. A giant container of cookie cutters. A lovely idea, right? Not so fast. Here’s the problem: I don’t bake cookies. Never have. Never will. The only “homemade” cookies my kids ever got were the ones I cut right out of the plastic wrapper of Pillsbury slice-and-bake.

In 71 years, I have rolled exactly zero batches of dough. I own a rolling pin, but only because it came in a bridal shower gift set, from my mother-in-law back in the Watergate era. It lives in my “miscellaneous drawer of shame” alongside an egg slicer and a fondue fork. The poor thing’s only seen action as a substitute hammer. Which, by the way, I also own. But that’s hiding in my “let’s pretend I know how to use tools” toolbox.

But hey, I thought, I’m a grandmother now. Time to evolve. Time to trade in my red-heeled boots for an apron, and transform into the dignified, flour-dusted grandma who bakes with love. (Spoiler: I kept the boots. At 71, I still strut in them. The apron? I collect them now. They’re great coverage when doing “experiments” with my youngest grandchild using shaving cream and slime.

Now, back to the cookie cutters. My first granddaughter, Brooke, was four when I babysat her one afternoon. She begged me to bake cookies with her. And if you’d seen Brooke’s giant brown eyes staring up at you, you’d sell your soul to the Girl Scouts.

I opened the fridge, praying for a roll of Pillsbury to save me. Nothing. “Mommy makes them with flour,” Brooke chirped. Of course she does. My daughter is one of those perfect moms who made her own baby food and considers kale chips a “fun snack.” I hide the lollipops and M&M’s when she drops the kids off at my house.

As I rummaged through the cabinets, I spotted their brand-new trampoline in the backyard. “Hey, when did you get that?” I asked.

“Last week! It’s so much fun!” she squealed.

“Well,” I said, “why don’t you show me exactly how fun it is?”

And just like that, I dodged a showdown with baking soda and those tiny measuring spoons. We bounced until we were giggling piles of sweat. (Remember, I was 48 then and still young enough that gravity was more of a suggestion than a law.)

Flash forward to Brooke at 19. We were visiting my youngest grandkids, and wouldn’t you know it—they had a trampoline. Brooke and I made eye contact, shared that conspiratorial grin, and bolted outside.

My cautious daughter immediately panicked. “Mom, please don’t! You’re… at your age… you might break something.”

At my age? Excuse me, look at me, I’m in great shape! I kissed her cheek, grabbed Brooke’s hand, and marched out like I was auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.

Getting onto the trampoline was… let’s call it “less than graceful.” I had big plans: a flip, a big smile, and a photo worthy for my next Christmas card.

Instead, Brooke and I bounced once, twice, and then—snap!—my knee gave up on its lifelong contract. I landed butt-first, hands up, reaching for support.

“Uh oh,” I muttered. Brooke dissolved into hysterical laughter. My son Mike, ever the opportunist, clicked the camera at that exact moment. Thanks, Mike.

And then it happened. The grandma tragedy. The one thing every woman fears when she sneezes too hard or laughs too long.

Yep. I peed my pants.

So now, 24 years later, I’ve learned one important lesson: forget the cookies, forget the flip and when you’re a grandma, always pack an extra pair of underwear.