Ginger came swaggering down the hall, her shoulders a little cock-eyed because of her age, and her face scrunched up like a little girl laughing at her own mischievousness. She swung her thin arms onto the reception desk in front me, hand over her mouth, trying to stifle a giggle. Behind her, a group of men were congregating outside my brother’s office, shaking hands and talking in loud voices.

I gave Ginger a knowing smile. I just joined the staff at my dad’s construction office two months ago, but Ginger has been here forever; she nearly watched me and my brothers grow up as we scampered in and out of the office to draw Dad pictures with his multi-colored highlighers and red pencils while he worked at his plan desk.

What are you laughing at? I asked her, knowing full well her intent at stopping by my desk was to tell me.

Her soft eyes, lined by barely-there gold-rimmed glasses, were caked with eye makeup, and her jewelry seemed to sparkle, something I noticed even when I was young. With her bleach-blonde hair, cropped short with several strands that flickered when she blinked, she reminded me of a sandy little shitzu puppy. At least half of her big-knuckled fingers had gold or diamond rings. She always seemed to wear two necklaces that made soft noises as she moved, and every day she wore some type of angel pin.

Well, she began, A guy from this excavating company stopped by and wanted to meet your brother. So I brought him back to meet him but I didn’t realize Keith was already there looking at plans.

This brought on a fresh round of stifled laughter.

Keith was from another excavating company that we worked closely with. The two men from competing companies probably weren’t prepared to run into each other at the office they sought business from, but I’m sure the awkwardness wasn’t unbearable. But Ginger found the hilarity of the moment absolutely gleeful, and I couldn’t help but share in the moment.

I grabbed the oversized candy mug on my desk and moved it in her direction.

Oooh! she said, her laughter turning to high-pitched glee. She daintily plucked a Hershey’s kiss and began unwrapping it. I leaned back, unwrapping my own piece of chocolate.

So, are you going to the race this year? I asked her, referring to the Indianapolis 500.

Oh, yeah, she answered quickly. I go every year with some friends. They let me set the pace. I’m a little slow these days, she added, chuckling softly. But I sensed a fragile waft of sadness in her tone.

The fact that Ginger feels her slow gait hinders others made me more aware of her age. And not even in the sense of the number of years she has lived, but the experiences and relationships and events she has been a part of. Though she lives alone now, she has been a daughter, a friend, a wife, a mother, a grandmother. She once kept up with everyone else, her legs strong and sturdy.

She was once a newlywed like me. She once dreamed of what her children might be like, like me. She celebrates her friends’ birthdays, like me. She gets excited when family is in town to take her out to dinner. She still gets a good joke, still flirts when the UPS men drop off plans at the office, and keeps chocolate at her desk to keep us coming around more often.

And maybe she hates living alone, like me. It made me think of all the times her endless stories kept me hanging around her desk longer than I intended and how she always waited to eat lunch until other people were in the break room.

The realization made me very aware of myself. It still hits me sometimes that I’m an adult. That I pay a mortgage, take care of a home and do yard work on Saturday afternoons. It won’t be long before my dreaming of children will become a laughing, dancing reality in my home, God willing. It won’t be long until my six- and seven-month wedding anniversary dates turn into 10- and 20-year anniversary dates, courtesy of a baby-sitter. It won’t be long until my husband and I are face to face, wrinkly and different, yet the same.

And it won’t be long until my own tell-tale signs of old age make me wonder if I made the most of my youth. Of my life.

Ginger’s stories and laughter and desire for human contact remind me what’s important now. Not the spreadsheets or the Post-It notes or the files or the copies or the deadlines or the networking. But the people…messy, hilarious, striving people.

We can reach all our lives and pull as much as we can into it. But in the end, the only treasure waiting at the end is what we have collected along the way.

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