My life as a retired millennial

Two weeks after my 21st birthday — when most of my friends were just beginning to enjoy post-college freedom — I moved into a retirement community in Palm Desert. 

My parents had a second home in Sun City Palm Desert, an “active adult community” located in the Coachella Valley, and the house was sitting empty at the time. Given that I was experiencing what could be melodramatically described as a premature midlife crisis, it seemed the perfect time for me to take an early retirement.

The thing is, I’ve always been comfortable around seniors. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that my parents were older than the other parents when I was in school (my mom was 40 and my dad was 54 when I was born). 

So, equipped with a carry-on suitcase and a handbag-sized dog, I ventured to Sun City, with its three clubhouses, generous golf cart parking and Olympic-sized indoor swimming pool.

Sun City was created as part of Del Webb, a national franchise of retirement communities that promises an active lifestyle, state-of-the-art facilities and lots of bocce ball. Built in 1992 and completed in 2003, the 55-and-over community has more than 9,000 residents, nearly 5,000 homes and 50 different floor plans. 

Floor plans are a big deal in Sun City. When meeting fellow residents of Sun City, the first thing they ask, after your name, is, “What floor plan do you live in?” Floor plans have luxurious names, such as “Barbados,” “St. Tropez” and “Marseilles.” For one month, I lived in the Waterford, a charming 1,300-square-foot floor plan with two bedrooms and two baths. Some people vacation in Costa Rica, others go to St. Tropez, but I went to Sun City.

My friend Fern, an 86-year-young resident who lives part time in Los Angeles, calls Sun City “a camp for senior citizens” because there’s always a club meeting, social mixer or group activity happening on the premises. “Nobody gets bored,” she would say matter-of-factly.

For me, staying in Sun City felt like going back to high school. There were cliques, in-crowds and social caste systems. Two Sun City residents, Jed and Judy — friends of my parents — took me under their wing, and because of them, I was inducted into the “cool crowd.”

Jed, a retired soap opera star whose face has graced many Soap Opera Digests, and Judy, a spiky-haired, leather-pants-sporting divorcee, met dancing during a singles mixer two years prior. Once a week, they’d fill me in on Sun City gossip during early-bird dinners at Mimi’s Cafe. The talk was usually about the Sun City dating scene, which is how I learned that men, when visiting their lady friends, would park their golf carts a couple of blocks away to ensure the privacy of their late-night activities.

Not long after coming to Sun City, I started adopting certain habits. Every morning and evening, I’d take Panda (my shih tzu mix) to the community park to socialize with other lap dogs her size (there were lots of bichon frises). I even acquired an athletic Sun City wardrobe, which included lots of draw-string waistbands and light-weight fabrics. 

I liked the routine of Sun City. My days were practical and predetermined. Before my arrival, I was taking a break from college (technically, a hiatus), and most days were spent without regimen or routine, doing odd jobs, waking up late and going to bed later. 

But eventually, as one could imagine, the Sun City routine got stale. Like clockwork, I encountered the same set of people every day, like the senior citizen gym rat who, when not at the gym, could be found floating on a blow-up raft in the community pool; or my next-door neighbor Coleman, 79, who was always in his garage fixing something — a lamp, a hinge, you name it. There was no suspense attached to my days — I knew how each would begin and end.

Granted, I was living Sun City the wrong way. I was completely inactive in what was supposed to be an active community. There was an array of clubs for residents, which included karaoke and a group for model railroaders. (To make matters worse, I didn’t take advantage of one single aquacize class.) 

On New Year’s Eve — a month after I arrived — I officially decided to call it quits and go home. After a night of party-hopping in Sun City with Jed and Judy as a final hurrah, we eventually ended up at a house party in a Provence floor plan (a whopping 3,300 square feet with three bedrooms and 2 1/2 baths). There was a moment when I was sitting outside, on a HomeGoods patio set — a champagne flute in hand, surrounded by the sound of wind chimes and far-away golf carts — and I came to the realization that, for the past month, I had been bored out of my mind. The next morning, I drove back home to Los Angeles. 

The last time I visited Sun City was six months ago, four years after my monthlong staycation. My parents sold the house, so on a weekend, my mother and I rented a truck and packed up the place. Coleman no longer lives next door, and Jed and Judy broke up. 

“It’s a life cycle,” my mom said, lugging a cardboard box filled with ceramic tchotchkes into a jam-packed U-Haul.

I think that’s true in more ways than one, as my time at Sun City showed me plenty that I was already familiar with: high schoolish social politics, a need for activity and engagement, and stereotypes that never seem to go out of style, no matter what age you are. Like they say, the more things change …