Fifty in a Frat

Two things. Number one. Yes, I’m fifty. After almost a year, (which of course would make me almost fifty-one) I’m giving into the idea and going public, provided we agree to agree to fifty, and no more.  Number two. I don’t really live in a Frat, but on the other hand, I sort of do. Oh, and number three—this  has nothing to do with food.

But let me back up.

When you’re about to turn fifty, and you wake up one morning suddenly painfully aware of your mortality, the next and only logical step is to go back to school. You have a novel to write and let’s face it—you need help. Your children have miraculously disappeared, but who knows when they’ll start to return. The freedom window is brief. There will always be students for you to teach. They can wait.

After a variety of coersions, your husband (who is gainfully employed, thank God) buys into the idea. Besides, you both love Miami, and the notion of creating a little part-time love nest (that’s the way you pitch it) is appealing.

Fast forward, and the two of you find a nice bachelor pad in the middle of everything and you sign on the dotted line. When the day comes that you make the move, you’re happy. The apartment is great and thanks to IKEA it’s both cheap and cheerful or just downright sexy (that’s the way you pitch it, although at this point, he’s starting to agree.)

A day or two later, you meet a chirpy young girl  in the elevator who, upon learning you’re heading to the gym, says in her high-pitched voice, “Good for you,” as if she’s talking to some old granny who’d finally managed to get to the toilet on her own. On the way back up, a devilishly handsome young man asks you if you’re helping your daughter move in. You bat your eyes and say, “no,” I live here. He seems disappointed, and from this point onwards you vow to take the stairs.

In the lobby, you notice the management has put up a sign that says, “Pool cushions are not to be used as flotation devices. Appropriate swimwear required.”  Is your one-piece Miraclesuit too revealing? Have they mistaken your flutter board for part of a chaise lounge?

And then it hits you. Everyone here is 22 and under. People are opening doors for you, offering to carry your groceries. You suddenly understand that the click- click- click you hear in your bed at 12 am is the sound of your neighbour’s high heels as she makes her way out to START the night. The music at 4 am is her returning. People laugh and carry-on in the hall like the fourth of July is every night. There is no one in the gym before 12 pm! People drive cars with names you can’t pronounce.

You live in a Frat for rich kids!

At first you panic and consider moving out, but you love your sexy writing den. You could have a keg party and invite everyone to come, but no, this is your freedom time. You won’t be intimidated.

You decide to fight back.  You buy a sporty black two-door 2009 Honda Civic (energy efficiency model)

And then you….well, you squeal around the parking garage with the sound of Alanis Morissette reminding yourself and everyone else that not only  is it true that  “you live you learn,” but that what

it all comes down to
Is that everything’s gonna be fine fine fine
’cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is giving a high five

And then you sit with your earplugs firmly in place at the window of your sexy freedom writing love nest with the lights of Miami twinkling in the distance and you write your novel.