life of the retired

My friend, Ali, invited to me to tag along with her family that was visiting her grandparents. I lived it up in one of those retirement villages that old people flock to in Florida. The youngest person in the community was fifty-six-years-old. A golf cart was a necessity because walking down the street always seemed out of the question; the driveway was constantly filled with visiting neighbors’ golf carts. We drove the golf carts in our hunt for gators, down the street to the nearby fire station, which was the only place we could get service, and even through the Florida state park. We sipped on homemade strawberry margaritas, compliments of neighbor Pat, while we watched orange clouds billow in the sky when the space shuttle took off. I’ve decided being old isn’t half that bad and now I really want a golf cart.