Say No to Nursing Homes

I could feel my lungs constrict as I watched them hobble from checkpoint to checkpoint. It was as if the plot line of the next horror flick was unfolding before my very eyes, striking fear into my already exhausted body. They walked in circles, talking amongst themselves, as if they were plotting to pounce at any moment. Some of them even carried machinery, as if to declare their readiness to go to battle at any beck or call. They were the most terrifying of men, these honed athletes. They were the senior citizen mall- walking club.
The early morning light streamed into the food court of the Castleton Square Mall as I watched what seemed to be a battalion of orthopedic shoes race toward me. I could not believe that I was actually beginning my day with this. I had been forced to stare into my inevitable future by my grandfather, who was adamant about getting his walk in before we could spend the day together. The familiar nursing home odor reached me as I held my breath, apparently afraid that wrinkles might be contagious. With their oxygen tanks and wheel chairs, they each walked six miles every morning together. Had I not known this was a club, I would have assumed that the age limit of Olympic athletes had been raised. I could not help but chuckle, settling into my seat as I stared openly at this comedic spectacle. This was actually happening. These herds of Revolutionary War vets were actually storming this shopping center, all one hundred and twenty-four of them.
I loathed the thought of getting older. Settling into a graying body could not be less appealing to me, not to mention the unavoidable dementia. I would rather pull the plug any day than spend my “golden years” drooling on myself. Yet as I watched these men and women power walk around the mall, laughing with their friends, making plans for the day, stopping to window shop, I could not help but realize that these people were not as alien as I once thought. They might be sporting fanny packs and neon visors, but they were still twenty-five at heart.
The majority of them had finished after a couple hours and rewarded themselves with a senior cup of McDonald’s coffee as they chatted about the weather, taxes, and whatever else there is to talk about when you are ninety-seven. On their last lap, I could see a group a ladies struggling to finish when a young mall security officer sped around them on his segway. At that moment I watched as a bright red finger nail rose from behind an over-sized handbag. Her hoop earrings glinted in the light of the rising sun, stockings desperately grasping her knees, as her dentures shifted in her mouth with laughter. She was victorious in that moment, with her middle finger waving in the air, as she mouthed the words “f--- you”. Tears streamed from my eyes as I could no longer muffle my laughter. It was then that I knew we were not different at all, aside from the fact that I would not have been able to claim disorientation to get out of trouble for flicking off mall employees. I sighed, the pain of laughter still tingling in my gut. Apparently drooling was not my only option fifty years from now. Rebellion was always going to be an open door.