On Exhibit

... A dispatch from bewilderness

I’ve just been up four minutes and am faced with my first big decision:  Which story should I click first, the man who mowed a message that he hopes his ex-wife will see — or the one about frozen iguanas falling from trees. Seems they, too, are losing their grip.

A few weeks ago, I met a man who may have — just may have — possessed tenderness and strength. Plus he looked good, too. So I asked myself if I had spinach between my teeth. Evidently, the answer was yes. Exit man.

I envisioned myself as an exhibit at a natural history museum.  A mannequin labeled as a continuing care retirement community geriatric mess.  A species that tends to leave fridges open, appliances on.  Plus specs of spinach in smile. A separate sign instructs, Please do not upset our recent acquisition.

I recently moved to a CCRC. A Continuing Care Retirement Community. It is the only CCRC in anywhere near this neck of the woods, and clearly the best as a result.

I look around the dining room and see a brave band of people originally from somewhere else move somewhere new as someone old.  A frontier saga of sorts. As we aged, we were canceled, cast aside, as old people often are. Except here. Where we are the bottom line.

In Independent Living, where 80% of us live, there are tons of distinguished people, or as one of my friends calls them, PIPs. Pretty Important People. Or People in Power a few years back. A ton of influence and affluence, too.

Plus many former academics. Like the former philosophy professor. Tonight he’s sitting with the former physics professor discussing the evolving promise of I forget what. 

You might wonder about the food, as we are in the dining room.  If I were reviewing, I’d say one small step for bland, one smaller step for bland-kind. Small portions, and a bit dry, too.  Occasional forays into Anchovy Butter or a shred of radicchio.   Portions are small for slowed senior metabolisms.  Then smaller for slower senior metabolisms.

Delete the defibrillators and it looks a bit like Downton, the chamomile of costume drama from across the pond.  You know, prestige productions with castles, queens and classical music. We enter the Gilded Age.  In slow motion, of course.  Nothing is overdone, except the occasional piece of salmon left a bit too long on the grill.  

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