On a cloudy day in late April, I took myself on a writing retreat to Red Wing, Minnesota, a place I’d visited dozens of times. I was looking forward to three days of solitude at the historic St. James Hotel, so after I picked up a few things at Costco I hopped back into my car and prepared to hit the highway. Until I discovered Siri wouldn’t be able to help me figure out which highway to take, thanks to an overnight phone update. But I had been visiting Red Wing since I attended college in Minneapolis decades earlier; surely, at some point, I’d recognize the route? I didn’t.

It took a conference call with my partner and stepson before I landed on the right highway and, after a few missteps in town, at the famous hotel. Once I settled into my cozy room, I decided to eat dinner early. Of course, I was the first to be seated at the restaurant; who else but a 65+ retiree would want dinner at 4:30. I was beginning to feel old. After a nice glass of wine and an enormous steak, I felt better.

Each time I emerged from my room during the next couple of days I observed the few other midweek hotel guests who had scheduled a rainy stay in this flooded river town. Some who were well beyond my age bent over as they walked—I felt grateful not to be there yet. Much younger couples ran after their toddlers, something I do a lot more slowly these days. Then there was the attractive man in his mid-forties who sat a few tables away at breakfast one morning. I felt a little depressed when I realized I could be his mother.

I perked up when I came across a brilliant sentence addressing age, uttered by a wise and engaging character from the novel I was reading. That kept me going for a few days. Until the effects of Minnesota’s dreary April weather got to me again.

One afternoon as a cold, raw wind whipped through bare gray branches of the trees next to our pond, I noticed that one of the daffodils I had planted the previous fall had bloomed. The cheerful splash of yellow standing brave and sturdy in weather it was built to endure reminded me that other blooms would emerge soon. I believed the promise this one hardy flower had for me as it bowed to the wind: more yellow daffodils, red tulips and purple crocus to come. Perhaps even the pink hyacinth would survive. I was back on track.

The next day, at the coffee shop de jour, I selected a table offering both a coveted electrical outlet and a panoramic view of the room. I had been writing for at least an hour when I noticed a woman in her mid-twenties who was removing her coat before sitting down at the table directly in front of me—she wore a crop top and summer weight slacks, in spite of 45-degree outside temperatures. A few moments later, a young man arrived and sat down across from her. I wrinkled my nose in disapproval at his dingy gray t-shirt—a color I associate with male college students, doing their own laundry for the first time, who throw darks and lights together in hot water week after week. What was he thinking?

I went back to my work but found I couldn’t ignore them entirely. I sat with my back to the wall and faced the long edge of their table, which gave me a view of their profiles. That meant I was privy not only to facial expressions but body language as well.

At first, they both kept their hands folded safely behind their coffee cups. A few minutes later, the young woman crossed her arms in front of her. She seemed nervous. The next time I looked up they were smiling; his hands were still folded in place but she had switched from crossed arms to hair-flipping. When he picked up his phone to show her a photo, her expression indicated she was gaining interest; he had been interested the moment he saw her.

Eventually, I got up to refill my coffee cup, determined to keep my head down upon the return to my table. But something compelled me to look up again—now they were touching their own faces and adjusting their clothing as they talked. When the sun came out and shone across their table, I was relieved to see that Romeo’s t-shirt wasn’t gray after all, but a light beige that perfectly matched the color of her clothing–a good sign, I thought. When she sat up straight to fiddle first with the bottom of her crop top and then with the waistband on her pants, he folded his hands and moved them toward her. Now they were laughing and flirting, enjoying the conversation.

I paused to check my motives—I’m a people watcher but typically remember to look away after the appropriate amount of time. It’s impolite to stare. But I had been observing this couple off and on for over an hour and they hadn’t even noticed; was I envious?

At the very least I was feeling nostalgic, remembering long-ago moments during college, after college, even between marriages, when every first date was an adventure. Each encounter with a new person brought the possibility of a new and different future story. I sighed as I watched the young man reach across the table, almost but not quite touching her hands—things had gone well.

My morning’s work was nearly done when, just beyond the budding romance, I noticed a woman who must have been about my age. Her bright gray hair was pulled back in a low bun, revealing silver earrings that perfectly suited the shape and size of her head. Heavy black glasses framed a still pretty face, and a rich brown sweater complemented her skin tones. She was looking at her computer, maybe talking to someone on the phone. She was both beautiful and interesting, wearing an expression of combined humor, excitement and contentment . . . a look that a face under 60 simply wouldn’t have enough muscle memory to pull together.

This person looked like someone I would probably enjoy getting to know. I recognized her expression and her style. And I found them to be attractive—perhaps even more so, at least to me, than the smooth countenance of the other woman I had studied for most of the morning.

As the young couple got up to leave—together—I looked back at my newer but older subject of interest and realized I was glad to be in this woman’s camp . . . her demeanor stood out among the unlined, energetic faces of the 30-something parents and entrepreneurs who inhabited every table but hers.

I had earned my spot in our shared world. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything, even a bare midriff fit for a first date.