Mary Smith

Pete bought the golf cart a week after we moved in. It's red, with white leather seats and a little cooler in the back for drinks. He calls it “freedom on wheels.” I call it a rolling midlife crisis, forty years too late. It’s been two months since we left North Carolina for The Villages, Florida, and I’m still waiting for that spark of joy he promised.

The air smells different here. Back home, the pines mingled with the faint tang of red clay after a rain. Here, it’s sunscreen, cut grass, and the sugary-sour tang of piña coladas served in plastic cups. Pete’s in heaven. He spends his mornings golfing, afternoons at the pickleball courts, and evenings listening to Elvis impersonators at Lake Sumter Landing. The Villages is like a perpetual summer camp for seniors, and Pete signed up for every activity.

Me? I’m 70 and counting, though I don’t feel it. Not until I look around and see nothing but silver hair and Hawaiian shirts. I taught high school English for thirty years; I miss the chaos of young minds figuring themselves out. Here, the most exciting conversation I’ve had was about the pros and cons of turf grass versus St. Augustine.

Yesterday, I wandered into the town square. Music floated through the air—some old doo-wop tune. Couples swayed together, their movements easy and practiced. I sat on a bench, watching. A woman in a sparkly blouse caught my eye and smiled, gesturing for me to join. I shook my head. “Not tonight,” I mouthed. Maybe not ever.

Pete thinks I’m being dramatic. “Give it a chance, Mary,” he said this morning as he polished the cart’s steering wheel. “There’s so much to do here!” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that sometimes, having too much to do is just another kind of emptiness.

I told myself I’d try for six months. But last night, I caught myself Googling small rentals back in Asheville. I haven’t decided yet. But if The Villages is Pete’s paradise, I might just have to build my own elsewhere.