Generation X is getting old – and our almost retirement-age columnist is envisioning her future in a still-young Phoenix.
by Amy Silverman | illustration by Hannah Agosta
The other day, I took a 10-minute walk and fast-forwarded two decades in time. On a sunny winter Saturday morning, it was a straight shot from my home just south of ASU’s Tempe campus to one of the high-rise buildings that have cropped up recently near University and Mill.
Let me preface all this by saying: I like “what they’ve done” with downtown Tempe. Last year, my husband and I did a rooftop bar crawl – there are suddenly that many hotels, with that many views and fancy cocktail menus. It was fun. We’ve lived in the neighborhood for 27 years, but with kids, extended family, work and – you know – life, there was never much time to play around. I ignored my margarita and stared out across the building-packed campus. It really is impressive if you like that kind of thing, and I do.
When we moved close to ASU all those years ago, I felt so erudite. I envisioned myself taking the occasional writing class, attending lectures, wandering the art museum on a random Tuesday afternoon.
Never happened. None of it. It reminds me of a line from one of my very favorite movies, When Harry Met Sally. Sally’s telling Harry about her ex and all the things they never did together, like having sex on the kitchen floor.
“‘The thing is, we never do fly off to Rome on a moment’s notice,’” she recalls telling the former flame.
“And the kitchen floor?” Harry asks.
“Not once,” Sally says. “It’s this very cold, hard Mexican ceramic tile.”
The ASU Art Museum isn’t open on Tuesdays.
So, when a fancy retirement facility popped up along with the other giant buildings a few blocks from home – billing itself as an opportunity for seniors to take advantage of the university community – I didn’t think much of it. Partly because I’ve had almost 30 years to take advantage of university life and haven’t, but much more than that because I don’t want another reminder of how old I am.
58. How the hell did that happen? Some days, I feel every minute of it, but mostly I forget – until I see something like a Super Bowl commercial starring present-day Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan (oof). Really, though, in many ways getting older is a blessing. I’m enjoying the institutional knowledge that you can only get from hanging around in one place for a really, really long time. I love to talk about how, in a lot of ways, this city – metro Phoenix – and I have grown up together. It’s like I’ve had a rooftop view of the whole place, watching our modern-day Valley emerge
But looking around, I realize now that, much like dog years, People Years and City Years are very different. I’m the dog. And it’s not just a seven-year difference. I’m firmly in my crone stage while Phoenix is a young adult, still coming into herself.
So, you can see why I cringe a little as I approach Mirabella, a 13-story, red-brick reminder of the too-quick passage of time. My generation isn’t quite old enough for assisted living, but our parents are. (OK, most of our parents. For the record, my own parents are not – I’m sure they would like you to know – old enough for any of this.)
Just last week, it seems, my girlfriends and I were talking at lunch about potty training and kindergarten graduation. Now, it’s Depends and funerals. Every day, it feels like another close friend is quitting her teaching job and moving away or retiring from corporate America and hitting the cruise ship circuit.
Journalists don’t have the luxury of retirement, and most days I’m more than OK with that, happy to continue to bear witness as long as I can. Which is what I’ve come to do when I reach the glass doors of the Mirabella lobby.
I am meeting a friend of my mom’s for coffee. The first thing I do when I step inside is hold my breath. Well, not exactly, but I am careful not to take a deep whiff. What if the place smells like Old People?
It does not. It smells like a hotel, in the best possible way. There is no wood paneling or carpet. It’s not dark like most of the care facilities I’ve visited for work. This space is airy and bright, with carefully chosen artwork by ASU MFAs and a fancy front desk. From across the lobby, I see a small library, which is where I’m headed when my mom’s friend intercepts me.
She shows me a pile of books ASU president Michael Crow donated – his favorites, a nice touch – but I have to giggle when I see that someone else has donated a copy of Jane Smiley’s novel Moo, the smartest takedown of university culture I’ve ever read.
I will admit that I could find nothing wrong with Mirabella. Other than the price. I didn’t ask, but it’s understood that the vast majority of seniors can’t touch the place. I’m not saying it’s not worth the cost. There’s a poker room, a small auditorium that hosts ASU speakers, a sparkly clean gym with an indoor pool and glass walls to open during nice weather. Bury me in the pretty little art studio, where residents offer workshops based on their own talents, like ceramics or glass art. The top floor, reserved for dining and a bar, has one of the best views in town.
My mom’s friend shows me her own apartment, big by any other city’s standards and equipped with more views as well as a washer/dryer unit and a curated collection of the stuff of two lives well lived – and still going strong. The friend is a very young 79, pleased with the decision to grab a corner unit. I concur, and we head downstairs to the bistro for tea.
She tells me about the classes Mirabella residents can take, the lectures to attend. There’s an online concierge and real-life ASU students working to put themselves through school. They keep the place young, she says.
It really is delightful. And while I can’t imagine myself ever living there, nor could I ever convince my parents, I don’t think I’ll cringe the next time I pass the place.
To be honest, I still think Mill and University is an unwise location for senior living. Most of the people I see on my visit are spry; the one place my mom’s friend does not show me is the space reserved for rehabilitation and medical care. The “step down” – or is it “step up”? – that everyone talks about when they talk about assisted living.
There’s already been one lawsuit over noisy music, and although there’s a Whole Foods a block away, you have to navigate a terrifying intersection to get there. Mill Avenue has been torn up for years, and I can’t see that changing during a Mirabella resident’s lifetime. Even without construction, there’s not much of interest for anyone of any age on what should be the most vibrant walking retail spot in the Valley.
Or maybe – as is sometimes the case, I’m learning in my relative old age – I’m being too hard on the city.
It’s a reminder that nothing’s perfect. And that most of us still have some growing up to do.
