I could not stop watching the old men.

Everywhere I went in Italy last week, as always, they were there. In the piazza. At the little cafe with three tables. On the bench in the shade. Old men, gathered, having coffee. Talking with their hands. Arguing about nothing. Sitting in comfortable silence when the arguing was done.

Every morning. Same men. Same table. Same espresso the size of a thimble.

At first I found it charming. Then I found it instructive.

These men have something most of us do not. A standing appointment with other humans. A place they belong without having to organize it, justify it, or earn it. Retirement did not isolate them. It delivered them to the piazza, where the table was already set and the other men were already there.

Nobody scheduled it. Nobody sent a calendar invite. They just go. Every day. Because that is what you do here. The culture built the table and the men sit at it for the rest of their lives.

I kept thinking, where is the piazza for us?

Because here is the thing nobody mentions. The script women are handed does not include this part. We are raised to take care of everyone, and somewhere around the back half of our lives, the people we cared for at work and home need us a little less, and we look up and realize we never built the table. We were too busy setting everyone else’s.

The men inherited a piazza. We have to build our own.

So I am starting with one evening.

On Thursday, June 4, I am getting on a call with a small group of women to talk about exactly this. The back half of our lives. What it is actually for. How we stop shrinking and start choosing. How we build the table nobody set for us.

No slides. No pitch. No performance. Just a room of women, cameras on, having the conversation we have all been having alone. It is the piazza, for one night, online. Free.

There is no replay, so you have to come. 5:00pm Pacific, 8:00pm Eastern. About 75 minutes.

This is me pulling out a chair. Will you sit down?

​Save your seat ​

Or just reply to this email and I will send you the link myself. I answer personally.

One more thing. Plenty of men read these letters, and I am glad you are here. This particular evening is for women, but you are not off the hook. You almost certainly know a woman who has spent her whole life setting everyone else’s table. Your partner. A colleague. A sister. The friend who always shows up and rarely gets shown up for. Forward this to her. Tell her you thought of her. That is its own kind of love, and it costs you nothing.

xo, Moe

P.S. I keep thinking about one old man in Bassano del Grappa in particular. He must have been eighty-five. He arrived last, sat down without a word, and every man at the table lit up. He did not do anything. He just came. That is what a table is for. Come June 4. Be the one we light up for.