I’ve been putting some thought lately into the possibility of moving into a home.
A retirement home.
No no, it’s absolutely true. Don’t be shocked, and please just hear me out.
Yes, I’m still only in my forties (actually, I just had my sixteenth twenty-ninth birthday, but who’s counting?), but I’m already losing my memory, and, the way I figure it, if my memory is going as fast as it is, but I’m not quite at bifocals yet, the positives to moving now outweigh the negatives.
Positive number one – I can have my room cleaned for me (this is more than I’m having done now, since having cancelled our cleaning service a number of years ago and having long given up on ME doing a good job at it. Don’t get me wrong, the place is tidy, but as my sweet husband says, “Tidy ISN’T necessarily clean,” – wtf is wrong with that?!) and anyway, if I move now, at least I’ll still be able to FIND my room.
Benefit number 2 – I can have my meals made for me if I want – and unless they’re like the buffet at the Gold Coast Casino in Vegas, the foodie in me should be ok with that (maybe I can work a deal with the chef in the back & raid the kitchen once in a while, providing I can convince them that sharp knives aren’t an issue yet).
And finally, bonus number 3 – The seniors in their homes seem to have more activities in their social calendar than I currently do in my own present “home,” – what with their bingo outings and bus trips, etc. And, if I move in soon, I may still have a chance of remembering what we did the week before. As it stands now, my husband has to remind me of things we did on previous vacations the year before, which is sad, but the optimist in me likes to think it makes it more like the movie, “50 First Dates.” Honestly, my kids are almost at driving age and shouldn’t really need me much; we’ve given them enough lessons on the ride-on lawnmower that they can assuredly get themselves to their own activities, or from point a to point b – as long as they don’t get caught. (I mean, back in the day, weren’t we driving the backroads by the time we were 12?) They can see over the steering wheel and probably look old enough to pass through a construction zone manned by an apathetic flagger without causing too much of a stir.
At any rate, I have my BFF (am I allowed to use that acronym at twenty-nine sixteen times over? Or is that only to be used if you’re under sixteen?) lined up with her bellaclava in hand, to break in with me if they won’t admit me this early on (my hubby isn’t ready to go with me yet) and we figure she and I can slip in relatively unnoticed (we’re counting on mass memory loss in the said selected retirement home) – unless there’s too much giggling going on. I’ve already told her that I’ll cover for her if her flask slips out of the top of her sagging beige nylons.
But seriously, the more I see both my Grandmother and my husband’s Grandmother resisting the idea of moving into a home (both are amazing women in their 90s, still living in their own homes), the more I wonder why they are fighting it – look at all the perks!
Actually, having said that, I take it for granted that I’m a Gen-X’er who finds it easy to say that I’d readily give up my freedom for a life of ease – for a good dose of house-cleaning, ready-made meals, and constant social stimulation.
I forget I’m not a Depression-era widow whose home is her fortress.