I drive up to the building’s entrance, grab my pocketbook and purchases from the back seat, and enter the apartment house I now call home. A parking attendant takes my place in the driver’s seat and steers my car into the garage. If there are too many bags to carry the doorman piles my things on a cart – the kind hotels use to transport luggage. I go up to my apartment, and within a few minutes my stuff arrives.
Next time I need my wheels I pick up the phone inside the lobby and tell the person on the other end of the line, “204 please.” Minutes later an attendant pulls up to the building entrance in my car. We exchange places and I am on my way.
The building entrance is covered, so in bad weather I don’t get wet waiting for my car. When cold I stay inside until my car appears. I have yet to experience a wait longer than five minutes. I assume holidays and summer weekends delays are longer, but I will be understanding and patient.
Should I feel guilty humoring my advanced age with personal services? Uncomfortable is the term that comes to mind. I am not used to being pampered by strangers, but I am getting spoiled, and, if honest, my unease dissipates each day.
I am a high-rise newbie. My husband and I moved into the building a month ago. My parents lived in an apartment until I was two years old, then migrated to a ranch house in the suburbs. Steve grew up in a fourth-floor walk-up in the city. Our apartment is on the fourth floor of a 20-story building. An elevator ride, a short walk down a hall, and we are home.
Why did we spend hours, and hours, and more hours preparing and moving 1½ miles from our home of 15 years?
My energy level is not what it used to be. I loved my garden, but found myself exhausted and frustrated attacking weeds and fighting squirrels and rabbits for newly sprouted vegetables. The animals usually won. Working around the house, cleaning, decorating, fixing stuff, was never my thing. I think I inherited the anti-housework gene from both my parents. Dragging garbage cans to the curb – one for trash, one for recyclables – I am not complaining, but…11:00 at night and in my pajamas, it’s do it in rain or sleet or snow or blustery winds, or risk overflowing cans until the next garbage collection. Now I walk down the hall to the trash bin, suitable indoor exercise for this senior. I realize I am making excuses for succumbing to an easier-going routine, but I have always had a lazy streak.
Time is precious to seniors. I spend a lot of time taking Steve to physical therapy and doctor appointments. When I do not exercise for a couple of days I crawl out of bed, inflexible and unbending, a sign of aging I am told. Parkinson’s patients take longer to ‘undo’ stiffness than non-Parkinson’s folks. Movement is medicinal.
We relocated to simplify our lives.
So what am I doing now? A list of projects stares at me, written over a few days in a steno pad discovered during my decluttering mania before we packed up and moved. Unfortunately organizational expertise is not one of my strong assets, and I am a procrastinator. A day will pass and I wonder…what did I do? A lot of non-priority stuff like laundry. A trip to CVS to pick up prescriptions. Whatever time of day there is a line, and the person in front of me collects prescriptions for her entire neighborhood. Maybe I prepared a home-cooked meal from scratch, including a dish or two that takes more than five minutes to concoct. Or maybe Steve and I decided to go out to lunch after a doctor’s appointment. Or I got involved in a mini-series and couldn’t turn the TV off.
Suddenly the day is almost done. Tomorrow is another day, and maybe I will be more conscientious. Possibly.
A new, clean home (new to me), a bit of pampering, and more free time. Priceless…