Retirement Community Crisis

Just imagine it. Bingo Night every Wednesday.  A swimming pool that nobody uses.  Free applesauce  on Sunday afternoons at the community center.  Peace and quiet 25 hours a day.  A funeral every other month.  Who doesn't want to live in a retirement community??

Me.

I hate applesauce without cinnamon.  I cry like a faucet at funerals--then get a headache.  I don't want to get yelled at every time I go to the pool without a full-body wet suit.  I suck at Bingo. 
In addition, I'd like to walk on the grass.  I'd like to smell like my Marc Jacobs perfume and live my life without an overwhelming scent of prunes and must.  I'd like to not have a neighbor named Old Mrs. Plum who tsks disdainfully at me when I come back at 8:30 pm, muttering about the state of my morals.

Seriously, so one of my friends/roommates is looking at apartments like a fiend.  She's unable to satisifed with anything but the best, or such is my creeping suspicion--this suspicion arising from the fact that everything she looks at is over a thousand dollars a month for rent.  Call me cheap, but I'm not going to pay that much. 

And then, lo and behold, our dream apartment drops in from heaven to grace us with its splendor.  950 a month, 3 bedrooms, 3 bath, a swimming pool, spacious, great neighborhood. (Previously, she'd turned her nose up at anything with less than the best neighborhood.)  So far, so good, right? 

"It's in a retirement community made up of 55 year old people and older...but living with old people will be great!" she added hastily.

....Are you kidding me?  Ok, I'm not "agist." I'm not against elderly people.  They're great, really.  In all their wrinkly, saggy, prune-smelling, splendor, I really love old people.  But I refuse, as a rational, level-headed, loud-music loving, college student to live in a retirement community.  I refuse to invite friends over, and ask that they turn down their cell phones to vibrate--maybe silent, if the neighbors are sleeping...at 6:30 pm.  I'm not going to live in a "condo" if that means I have rush to the microwave before it can ding loudly and startle Old Mrs. Plum.  No. I refuse.

I tried arguing rationally.  Wasn't there some sort of rule that would keep us out, seeing as we're about 30 years under the age limit? No.  Didn't they distrust us, fearing for their "Tranquility and Utter Silence" rule? No--the manager was a really super nice guy.  Didn't my friend want to live somewhere with younger people? No.  3 bathrooms, 3 bedrooms? Wouldn't that make things cramped?  No no, the rooms were very spacious. 

I've resorted to a simple "I don't like old people," motto.  (Again, that's not true at all. Please, don't attack me with your walkers, oversized handbags that weigh down the right side of your body, or walking canes.)   But we wouldn't fit in!  And they wouldn't like me for the simple fact that sometimes when I'm excited my voice goes above a whisper!

What college student can even throw a party in a retirement community?  And I'm not talking about a rager where you meet friends of your friends' older siblings' friends' friends and where there's beer so sticky on the floor you're reduced to standing in a weird awkward corner talking to a really hammered guy with a pedo mustache. No, I'm talking about having a few friends over and watching Disney movies in your pajamas with popcorn and those sour gummy watermelon candies.  I'm talking about a study group with your nerd-friends from Anatomy class who you depend on to get you a passing grade. I'm talking about a "get together." A "rendezvous."  A "hangout," if you will.
Lest I write an essay on my displeasure I will end with--I'm not living in a retirement community.   Stop frowning at me in all your disdainful wisdom Old Mrs. Plum.  Geez.