The Golden Girls were fabulous — but I’m not quite ready for Cheesecake at midnight — yet…
I recently had the startling realization that I am now older than the Golden Girls were when the show first aired. Blanche, Dorothy, Rose, and Sophia — my Saturday night comfort food of the 1980s — were supposed to be “senior citizens.” Yet here I am, a woman in her early sixties, and I feel more like I’m finally just hitting my stride.
When The Golden Girls premiered in 1985, (40 years ago!!) Blanche Devereaux was 53. Fifty-three! I remember thinking she was practically ancient — a saucy, over-the-hill Southern belle with big hair, big shoulder pads, and even bigger opinions. Dorothy was 54, Rose 55, and Sophia, well, she was “80,” (although Estelle Getty was actually younger than Bea Arthur. That’s Hollywood math for you.)
Back then, they all seemed like they’d lived three lives already. They wore housecoats, discussed ailments, and ate cheesecake as a form of group therapy. But they also laughed, loved, and proved that friendship — and flirting — doesn’t come with an expiration date.
Still, let’s be honest — we’re not those Golden Girls.
The hippest Boomers
We’re Generation Jones — the last wave of the baby boom, raised on Pop-Tarts, Schoolhouse Rock, and the Sears Christmas Wish Book. We thought 50 was when you started winding down, and now here we are at 60-something, still trying to figure out if we’re too old for ripped jeans but too young for Chico’s.
I’m technically an empty nester now, though “empty” is a stretch. The girl may have moved out, but let’s face it, she still relies on our wallet like it’s some kind of magical ATM that dispenses both cash and advice on demand. 🙂 She may not live under our roof while in school, but my Venmo & Amazon accounts know her zip code by heart.
And okay — confession time — I do have a lanai. But mine has string lights, a Bluetooth speaker, and usually a margarita involved. It’s less “retirement village,” more “grown woman who’s earned her peace and her playlist.”
The biggest mystery at this stage isn’t how I got older — it’s how I’m supposed to dress for it. I live in a place where there are no real seasons, so my closet looks like it belongs to someone with an identity crisis. Tank tops live next to light sweaters, and I think I’ll be keeping my flip-flops out year-round. I scroll fashion blogs trying to figure out what “coastal grandmother chic” even means and whether linen really is my friend.
a debt of gratitude to the Golden girls
But honestly? I’m fine being a little bit of everything — barefoot one day, put-together the next, and sometimes both within the same hour. Depends on my mood.
The truth is, the Golden Girls paved the way for us. They showed us that laughter is ageless, that friends are the family we choose, and that cheesecake can solve almost anything. They gave us permission to be bold, bawdy, and beautiful no matter the year on our birth certificate.
But we’ve taken it even further.
We’ve redefined what sixty looks like. We don’t fade into beige cardigans and early-bird specials. We wear what makes us happy, listen to what makes us move, and do what makes us feel alive — even if that sometimes means a nap afterward.
We’re the generation that watched the moon landing and learned to use Face ID. We went from rotary phones to iPhones, from love beads to AirPods. We’ve raised kids, launched careers, loved, lost, and reinvented ourselves more times than a Netflix series.
So no, I’m not ready for the lanai — at least not the kind Blanche and Dorothy had.
If you’re looking for me, I’ll be out on mine — under the fairy lights, drink in hand, Fleetwood Mac playing in the background, trying to decide if I’m hot, cold, or both. Because growing older isn’t the end of the story. It’s just the part where we finally start writing it for ourselves.
