Our house has been falling apart. Perhaps that sounds a bit dramatic, but here’s the scene: First the dishwasher drain hose got plugged up and had to be emptied. Then the central vac system needed a new motor. And last week the microwave died and had to be replaced. All this happened within a couple of weeks. Maybe, we thought, it might be time to sell our old house and move.
Just then we got an invitation to a free lunch at a local retirement home. What a coincidence! Peter will do almost anything for free food. And we could book the lunch on a Lucy day so we could get out of the cleaning lady’s hair. This was a no-brainer. We even got a bit dressed up.
When we arrived, Peter let me off at the door and I went in to the front desk to ask about parking. I relayed the info to him – go along to the next entrance and then drive down into the underground parking lot to visitors’ parking. I waited in the front lobby. And waited. And waited. The hostess assured me that no white car had driven into the underground lot – just a red one. I was starting to panic. Where could he be? Then it hit me – we had not driven his white car today; we had taken my red one! Oops. And then Peter appeared in the lobby. The clerk looked me over, secretly saying to herself: “Well it’s definitely time for this lady to move here. She can’t even keep track of their cars!”
Then we were escorted to our table in the dining room. The table was set with a linen cloth, silverware, and a couple of drinking glasses each. The service was very formal: serve from the right, remove from the left. Or is it the other way around? The other guests were very old and spoke softly. We couldn’t even hear any gossip! But the food was very good: appetizer, main course, and dessert. Three meals a day like this and we would blow up like balloons in no time.
Next on the menu was a tour of the facilities. We saw a fitness room outfitted with chairs for sit-down exercising, and fitness machines that were not in use. There was a spa for touching up grey hair and for cutting toenails that clients could no longer reach. And there was a theatre with movies running 3 times a day. It seemed like there was a lot of sitting going on in the daily routine.
The hostess asked if we would like to see one of the suites. I said “sure” and Peter rolled his eyes. When we got to the elevator, there was a line-up. One of the 2 elevators was in use by somebody moving in. Or out. The other one wasn’t big enough to hold all the walkers and wheelchairs in the lineup. So we thanked the hostess and said we would return another time.
That time may be far away. We both felt that we had visited a hotel. It was lovely for a short vacation, but it would be hard to think of it as home.
Sue
Seventy In the City 
Wow, Sue, that strikes a note. When I was touring such homes with my independent and adult orphan friend, Sylvia – was it before or after her stroke? – I felt the same temptation as you to pack in my day-to-day concerns with managing home life and opt to live the “hotel” life. Everything you wrote was tempting. But like you, I felt keenly the lack of age diversity. It felt like warehousing – perhaps better than wasting away in solitude, I suppose. I have only a brother for family and I don’t know if he can be relied on the way you and Peter synchronize your lives. He lives with me in the summer, and cheaply in the Caribbean in the winter and makes no plans for his future otherwise.
Our family are genetically blessed with good health until the end (Dad at 94), so I’m going to bet I can still hoe the garden – like Lorne at 95 – and stay free.
So that puts your temperamental machines and my leaky basement and sometimes also the roof in perspective, doesn’t it. Only the demise of my landlord would change everything, and that I am working hard on Plan B.
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