The east side of Mesa is a world in and of itself. I pondered this notion as I drove through the streets of our adopted Arizona city to pick up Bill from the Hyundai car dealer where we dropped off our Sonata for some repair work.

Mesa — particularly east Mesa — has so many retirees that you are caught off guard when you meet an older person who doesn’t have a Minnesota accent. Seriously, is there anyone left in Minnesota over the age of 50? (Cynically stated as only another snowbird could do in all good conscience.) While Scottsdale — also a mecca for retirees — is thick with men and women with expensive haircuts, golf course suntans, wearing tennis whites in the grocery store, and driving Bentleys, east Mesa is home to we common folk. You know, the people who grew your corn and wheat, or who fixed your automobile, or who taught Junior his new math.

As such, our abodes are more down-to-earth as well. While Jen, Bill, and I have a small single family home in a regular neighborhood where a school bus picks up the neighborhood kids each morning, I would venture to say that a large segment — perhaps the majority — of the senior population in east Mesa live in what are called Park Model neighborhoods. These are neighborhoods with small but usually nice homes — sometimes mobile homes or even RVs — that are limited to the 55 Plus demographic. The neighborhoods offer a lot of group activity options. You will often find pickle ball courts and bingo nights and monthly square dances in these types of ‘hoods. As with most things, some are nicer than others.

What got me to pondering was my driving past a somewhat sad-looking trailer park neighborhood near the car dealership that was called Apache East Estates…..

That made me smile, because I would imagine that the people who live in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, refer to their homes as estates. Without being judgmental, the two are not the same. For one thing, inexplicably, Grosse Pointe feels the need to add e’s to the end of each word, giving me the urge to call it Grossie Pointie. (That would not make the Grossie Pointie City Council happy.) The residents of Apache East Estates probably come from midwest towns that don’t end in unnecessary e’s. You don’t hear about Rede Cloude, Nebraska, for example.

I’ve also observed that the communities that aren’t Something-or-Other Estate are often Something-or-Other Resort. Just sayin’.

Euphemisms or not, I feel the need to add that the people who live in these estates and resorts have a lot of fun. And a lot of community spirit. I know this because many of the restaurants where Bill and I choose to eat often have literally tables full of neighbors who are dining together. They are generally happy to be retired, conservative in their dress (and probably their politics), wear shorts and Hawaiian shirts even if it’s 45 degrees (because they’re used to 45 below and this feels like a heat wave), and love their retirement. Rather than making me cranky (as most things do), I find myself smiling at their joyful companionship.

After we dropped off the car, we went to a little family-owned restaurant on Main Street near our house. There were only a few people (it was early, even for the 55 Plus crowd). We walked in and looked around for a hostess. A woman sitting with a male companion in a booth hollered out to us, “Take a seat anywhere. The staff is in the kitchen right now.” Clearly a regular, I thought. And I was right, because as she and her companion — probably her husband — left, she bid the waitress a chipper, “See you tomorrow!”

And then they returned to their home in Apache East Estates or Sonoran Valley Resorts, happy as a clam to be retired.

As am I.

My mother wasn’t much of a joiner. Not like Bill’s mom, who was a member of her garden club and her church bell choir and a book club and PEO. Mom worked and cooked and watched football and went to church and spent time with her family.

Because Bill’s mom enjoyed participating in community groups and clubs, she had her kids active as well. As a child, Bill took acting lessons and singing lessons and tennis lessons. He sang in his church’s children’s choir. If there was a way she could get Bill out of the house and thereby not torturing his sister, she found it.

I belonged to exactly zero clubs as a kid. It wasn’t until junior high when I was able to join CYO (Catholic Youth Organization) because if she didn’t let me, the nuns would have hunted her down. Mostly it was okay, because I, like my mother, am not much of a joiner. But man-oh-man, would I have liked being a Girl Scout.

Let me rephrase that. I would have liked JOINING the Girl Scouts. For about two meetings. Because for me, it was mostly about getting to wear the Brownie and Girl Scout uniform.

Court was a Cub Scout for a brief period of time. It didn’t really stick. After all, this is the child who told me he didn’t want to go on a hike because “I hate nature.” But he stuck it out long enough to get his Webelo badge and then happily tossed aside his blue uniform and pretty much has stuck to his dislike of nature ever since.

I am reminded about this hole in my life about this time every year, when my grandchildren who ARE Girl Scouts are selling cookies. For a time, I had three Brownies, resulting in the purchase of a hell of a lot of cookies, resulting in situations like this….

Since Maggie Faith tossed aside her brown vest, I’m now down to only two….

Kaiya and Mylee are ready to begin their 2019 course in consumerism. They start with their grandparents.

I don’t know the level of the rest of the grandparents’ commitments, but this nana is determined to order four boxes of cookies from each cookie entrepreneur. I will give Bill his choice of four, and I will choose four as well. Bill will select any cookies involving chocolate. As for me, I am all about the Savannah Smiles and the Tagalongs. I used to be a Samoa girl, but now it’s all about the peanut butter.

Girls Scouts of America now allows grandparents (and others) who live far, far away from their grandkids to place an order and have them delivered right to their door step. Sales can be completed entirely without talking to a single Girl Scout. Except I will talk to mine.

I will place my order which will allow me to confidently refuse the scads of little girls selling cookies in front of every single grocery store in the city.

“Sorry,” I sing to them. “I’ve already given my order to my two favorite Girl Scouts.”

By the way, if you’re in the cookie market, give me a buzz. I can hook you up.

All Worn Out
Well, I finally did it. I wore out a credit card. It happened at breakfast yesterday morning. I gave the cashier my card and he ran it through the machine. No go. It wasn’t denied. It just didn’t do anything. When I looked at the strip on the back of the card, I realized it was almost entirely worn off. The reason I didn’t know it earlier is that I do a lot of my shopping on the internet, and apparently the rest of the shopping I do at places that have chip readers. The good news is my new card is in the mail, as this card expires at the end of February. I don’t even want to know what this means about how much money I spend.

Overkill?
And speaking of spending money, I ordered a belt to wear when I’m walking with my nordic walking sticks so that I have someplace to keep my cell phone. I have one in Denver, and figured it was one of those things I could duplicate here. Good ol’ Amazon, it showed up as expected a mere two days later. When I opened the box, here is EXACTLY what I found…..

Seriously? I’ve gotten many an Amazon package in a smaller box. Heck, it could have fit in an envelope. I envision that the person who packed my order was tired, and the more reasonably-sized boxes were at the other end of the warehouse (as was, apparently, the bubble wrap). It was the end of his shift and he just wasn’t going to do it.

Birthday Celebration
My sister Bec celebrated the first anniversary of her 35th birthday yesterday. We celebrated with her son Erik and his family at Firebirds Wood Fired Grill last night. Bec’s daughter Kate was supposed to join us all the way from Las Vegas, but was down with a bug. As always, we had such a good time. Bec is the most amazing 35th x 2 person I know, and I am absolutely delighted to have her as my sister, my friend, and my role model to enjoying life….

Something’s Fishy
One of a number of things I anticipated missing while in the desert was the Hawaiian dish called poke. It’s true there is a restaurant serving poke near where Bec lives, but that’s 30 minutes from my door. In Denver, I can be at the nearest poke restaurant in five minutes, and often am. So I was delighted to stumble upon Poke Fuzion only a 10 minute drive from my front door. I’ve been twice, and both times I have left very happy. The last time I went, I couldn’t get the club soda machine to turn off. I reckon the owners were much less happy than I…..

Ciao!

Some 10 or so years ago, as I waited in the line at the grocery store, I noticed a headline on one of the magazines. It might have been Glamour or Vogue (although the magazines by the checkstands are generally limited to publications featuring photos of a ragged-looking Emily Blunt secretly smoking a cigarette, or photos of Princess Kate giving a sideways surly look to the queen).

Anyhoo, the headline said: You Can Still Look Good at 30, 40, or EVEN 50!  My 55-year-old self decided I hated anyone under the age of 30. Except my grandkids.

Because HOW DARE THEY? Why is it so impossible to believe that a woman of a more advanced age can’t look good, even without the makeup or expensive cosmetic surgery that the magazine probably recommended?

According to an article I recently came across from Literary Hub, a Brookings Institute study revealed that women become the happiest after the age of 55, and are most happy towards the end of their lives. The study showed that women in their 20s are actually the least happiest of all women.

I actually wasn’t terribly surprised to read the results of the study. I was frankly a hot mess during my 20s. I’m hoping God was distracted and not paying attention to me from 1973 to 1980. Just sayin’….

I think there comes a point in most women’s lives when the intrinsic need to look good every time we step out the door goes away. While it’s a tough pill to swallow at first, reality sets in that no one is paying any attention to us. That sounds sad, but it isn’t. Instead, it’s rather liberating. I admitted recently that I inadvertently wore my slippers to a store and was mortified when I realized what I had done. But my mortification was short-lived when I realized that absolutely no one looks at my feet, and if they did, they would dismiss it as just another example of crazy old people.

And, what’s more, older women tend to be happier than older men. The study authors have lots of theories, but I think it’s because (beware: generalization ahead) men tend to measure their happiness by their professional success, and mostly by how much money they make. Women are more reliant on friends and family relationships for satisfaction.

Whether or not we older women feel happy obviously depends a lot on our health. If we are in constant pain, or have difficult illnesses, we are a lot less happy. But if we feel good, are in a good relationship with our kids and our spouses, and have a gallon of Breyers Salted Caramel Truffle gelato in the freezer, we are happy as can be.

I don’t know if I will be at my very happiest when I’m in my 80s as the study suggests. But I do know one thing: my sister Bec — whose birthday is today — seems pretty darn happy at this stage in her life. Happy birthday Sis!…..