The main thoroughfare of the gated community is a circle of an eighth mile, lined by red-tile roofed townhouses of a certain age. Certain I am of my age, exceeding the residential requirements posted at the iron gate. Residents must be geezers, (my interpretation of 55+). The gates will open for me, as I hope those pearly ones will in a few years when I flash my passport to Peter.
In the six years I have lived here a dozen people have gone from that gate to His gate, including the two
men I love most. Now it is just Pippa and me in the house my father built in 1989. Herman hated dogs so I never kept one growing up. I wonder what he thinks when he looks through the skylight and sees a black chihuahua running up and down the spiral staircase? Likely he would shake his head in disapproval. “whatta ya need that for…pain in the ass!”
We walk the circle before the sun comes out from behind the Sandias. It is hard to get moving, she in her red sweater, and me in a puffer jacket over PJ’s. As soon as we hit the cool air we are energized. Maybe I can even run again.
My daughters sent me a “Fit Bit” for Christmas. I laughed when I pulled it from it’s packing. “What the hell do I do with this?” A rubber wrist band with a black plastic face.
I have limited tech skills. Why do they think I need to know how many steps I take in a day, or how well I slept last night. I can tell you without technology that I woke up three times to pee.
They meant well. Some of the younger women I know swear they can’t live without one. Since Christmas I’ve noticed two who definitely look trimmer.
I have a plan…at Best Buy. The young Geeks can set it up. The have patience with the Geezers who line the other side of the counter. They could have been my fifth grade student once. Maybe the Geezers trained them well; it is their turn to teach us.