Back to College

It’s that time of life. I now know three different couples in my peer group who have moved into retirement homes. We just visited one in a place in Montecito just south of Santa Barbara and in some ways, were mightily impressed. Taking the tour with them, we peeked into all the art rooms— pottery, textiles, painting, crafts and more, the music room with the Steinway grand piano, the games room, the library, the exercise/ weight room, the indoor pool. Outside was the bocci-ball courts, cornhole (and playing against myself, I made eight in a row! World record!), lovely gardens and more. The apartments were lovely and the dining room with its impressive breakfasts—French toast, omelets, waffles, orange juice, caffe lattes and cappuccinos, was a fine way to start the morning. All of this in buildings with their impressive California/ Santa Barbara exquisite architecture style with red-tiled roofs, turrets, wood-paneled walls and more. 

 

It struck me that it was like going back to college, but perhaps even better. That “ivory tower” feeling of being apart from life’s insistent demands and challenges. The residents were pretty much in the same peer group without the insecurities of hoping they’d be in the cool social group, they were free from the stresses and strains of  making a living, they could manage their own learning  without having to declare a major, they had the invitation to express themselves artistically and read books without the pressure of grades and schedules, they had the leisure time to play games, there is on-site medical care and both the “dorm rooms” and the “cafeteria” were many notches higher in comfort and quality. A sweet deal! In the last phase of their adult life re-living at a higher point in the spiral the first phase of their adult life. Something poetic about it. 

 

And yet. As attractive as it all seemed, it comes at a high price tag. Literally, as the cost of living in such a place is even higher than college tuition. The privilege of affording it affected the level of diversity— no surprise that it was about 99% white folks. And for me, the hardest part would be missing the diversity of ages. No kids, young adults, middle-aged folks. No immersion in the hustle and bustle of city life. No feeling of still contributing to the workaday world. Not my idea of paradise. 

 

Of course, other things may make the choice of living and dying in my own house not possible. The 13 steps to the front door, the door itself probably too narrow for a wheelchair, the possible need for more round-the-clock medical care. All these things that I’d rather not think about as I still hike and bike and travel and play some hot-body-percussion, but will have to face and prepare for some day. For now, “que será, será, whatever will be will be,” I sing as I get ready to swim in the pool and go on the day’s hike in Palm Springs with kids, middle-aged folks and elders.