At 40, Love Looks Like a Glass of Pinot Noir

I was recently in New York City, one of my favorite places on the planet. When I was a child, I found the city loud, overwhelming, and a little scary. Now, its vibrancy, wonder, and unmistakable pulse surround me every time I visit.

On this trip, my husband and I met friends in Brooklyn, a borough I have also recently fallen for. We stopped at a few bars, and at each one, we were asked to show our IDs. My friends are younger than I am, so they barely noticed, but both times I handed over my license, the bouncer looked at it, looked at me, smiled, and gave me a subtle wink. That was when it hit me: I am old.

Okay, I’m 40. Not old, exactly, although it is an age I am still learning how to inhabit. And if you pay someone to minimize the lines on your forehead, you know the bouncer is not genuinely concerned that you might be under 21. Still, I smiled, walked inside, and tried to blend in among the carefree twenty-somethings while ignoring the sticky tables, flimsy cups, lukewarm drinks, and music playing at a volume that felt medically inadvisable.

As the night went on, I began watching the people around me. Everywhere I looked, someone seemed to be searching for love, celebrating it, or attempting to recover from it. A group of women danced in a circle, singing loudly and laughing with one another, reminding me that friendship may be one of the strongest forms of love we ever experience. Nearby, a group of men played pool, scanning the room before and after each shot as if hoping someone attractive had noticed. A couple sat across from one another drinking beer, completely oblivious to everyone around them. I desperately wanted to know what they were talking about.

And then there was me, drinking a vodka soda and observing it all while my husband attempted to befriend the bartender by discussing every beer on the menu. Watching him, I realized I had forgotten what it felt like for us to go out the way we did in our twenties. It was fun to be reminded, although I also made a mental note that we needed more date nights at quieter places and significantly earlier hours.

When we returned to our hotel around 11 p.m., a line of twenty-somethings stretched outside the lobby, all waiting to enter the nightclub downstairs. The bouncer stopped every one of them but waved my husband and me straight through. Apparently, we no longer looked like people who might be sneaking into a nightclub. We looked like people trying to get upstairs and go to bed. Despite the bass thumping below us, our room was dark, peaceful, and quiet, and after several hours of crowded bars and pounding music, the stillness felt wonderful.

I asked my husband if he had fun, and he nodded before asking me the same. I told him that I had, but that I was officially too old to bar hop and all I really wanted was a great glass of Pinot Noir. He smiled and left the room. Ten minutes later, he returned with a generously poured glass of red wine from the club downstairs, having made his way through a crowded bar full of beautifully dressed people so I could sit in my pajamas and drink Pinot Noir in bed.

Love isn’t always the person across the crowded bar hoping to catch your eye. Sometimes it’s the person who already knows exactly what you want and goes back downstairs to get it.

I took a sip and leaned against the headboard, replaying the evening. I had watched friendship on the dance floor, possibility around the pool table, intimacy between two people sharing beers, and a room full of strangers searching for some version of connection. Yet I had nearly missed the love unfolding right in front of me.

When we are younger, love can feel like something dramatic we are trying to find. It is the look across a crowded room, the first kiss, the late-night conversation, or the story we cannot wait to tell our friends the next morning. At this stage of my life, love feels different. It is quieter, more familiar, and woven into gestures that could easily go unnoticed. It remembers what I drink. It knows when I have had enough noise. It leaves a comfortable hotel room, navigates a packed nightclub, and comes back carrying a glass of wine.

That may not sound like a grand romantic gesture, but perhaps that is the point. Love does not become less romantic as we age. We simply become better at recognizing where it lives.

Sometimes it lives in friendship, sometimes in being known, and sometimes in a hefty glass of Pinot Noir delivered at exactly the right moment. I may still be grappling with turning 40, but I am very much in love with this phase of my life.