I had the house to myself this past weekend. The husband--bless his heart--was at his 40th college reunion in Boston.

I had a couple friends over to sit on the porch for coffee, a few more for happy hour, and one for rich conversation and catch-up. The company was lovely. Our simple, old, screened-porch was lovelier. My friends each looked around in wonder and said, "This porch is amazing."

Here is what I want you to know: There is nothing special about our porch. The floor is stained, cracked cement. The screens are removable; one torn because our puppy didn't understand she shouldn't launch herself into the yard through it. The doors squeak, the walls are simply the cracked stucco that covers our entire house.

Taken by themselves, these individual components have no right to make up an amazing porch. Yet somehow they do.

The same could be said of our entire house.

She is an old lady. We don't have all the details surrounding her birth, but there is documentation she may have originally been constructed around the time of the Civil War.

She's been added on to here and there.

Her exterior is sort of crumbly and the paint color of each side doesn't match perfectly.

Though the old windows are stunningly oversized with deep, dark wooden windowsills, they often fail to keep out both drafts and bugs. We just crank the heat or use a fly-swatter.

The floorboards creak from use and show generations of wear.

The ceilings and walls are not square, so our artwork sits a tad wonky. The railing around the curved stairway is startlingly short and is even more startlingly short of modern building code.

This old house is perfectly imperfect.

But man oh man, does she welcome people in and invite them to kick off their shoes and stay awhile.

No pretense here; no fussy entryway or soaring foyer. She reminds me of a beloved grandma in a slouchy, hand-knit cardigan with fleshy arms and an ample bosom whose purpose is not to be admired, but to offer the best hugs around.

I want to be like this house when I get old.

It's happening, too. I can feel it.

My knees creak. My exterior is less than sleek. I recently had a root canal. I navigate my shoes around a bunion. My gray roots show. My ability to read small print is fading. You know the deal.

But rather than bemoan the changes, I hope to age like our house.

No apologies.

No pretense.

Just letting my imperfections become an invitation—a safe, cozy place for others to land.