We were invited for dinner at the place to which a number of my "senior" friends have retreated. The experience was cordial and civilized, but somehow troubling. I know one thing: I don't want to wind up there. I'm staying put as long as I possibly can.
Too many old folks. I want to live where there are people of all ages and varieties. Babies and toddlers and tweens and teen-agers and young adults. More activity, fewer canes and crutches and walkers.
The place, though handsome and well-appointed, seemed to me to be inhospitable. Supervisors at every entrance. We had to check in at a fancy kiosk where some sort of electronic device took our official data and printed out a visitor badge, which I pocketed. It felt much too "policed."
The dining room was hushed and mannerly. The food was institutional-plus, but nevertheless institutional. I much prefer my own cooking; I've made a fetish of self-sufficiency all these years and I'd like to continue so. I like to stir my own pot.
The apartments are splendid, but the long narrow corridors between apartments are oppressive. Too reminiscent of hospitals. Or jails.
My principal objection: friends who have moved there become subsumed into the society of the place. They participate in the home's "activities." It's good and healthy for them, I suppose, but my friends become lost to me. Swallowed in a kindly maw. It's scary, to those of us who don't want to be swallowed.
I'll stay here on Walnut Street as long as I can. As in the traditional resolve, I plan to leave "feet-first." But we shall see what the future brings.
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