The Golden Years

My parents play bridge at the senior citizens center. I picture them seated with other octogenarians at square tables covered in plastic tablecloths, a food table on the wall filled with store-bought cookies, candy, nuts, a Bundt cake. The women wear jewelry and makeup and perfume, a polyester pantsuit with a jacket or sweater in case it's too cold. The men are dressed likewise in no-iron shirts tucked into dress pants, their belts rest above their bellies, a line where chest meets stomach.

They sit with rounded backs and feet planted for stability, careful with every movement whether it's laying down a card, taking a sip of weak coffee, or picking up crumbs off the table.  One would think what a peaceful scene this: in the final years of life, sweet old retirees finding friendship and enjoyment in a little healthy competition.

But my mother says it ain't so.  "Those old people act like a bunch of kindergarteners. Just the other day Jolene said Chuck called her a bitch, so she complained to the Director who put up a sign that says Profanity Will Not Be Tolerated. But then some others got into it and Norma went over there and ripped the sign down saying that's against freedom of speech."