Livin’ the Dream in Jurassic Park

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Like most seniors, I feel much younger on the inside than the outside. I am between 16 and 19 years old to be exact. Therefore, it sometimes surprises me that I am now living in a retirement community.

How did that happen?

In my youth, I called people my age “dinosaurs.” Am I now headed for extinction?

Well then, if I must be an ancient reptile, I want to be a Tyrannosaurus Rex. King of the large lizards. Top of the food chain. A meat-eater who may not be the biggest creature on
the block, but certainly one of the mightiest.

T-Rex was a jock, running up to 18 miles an hour, and he possessed the ability to swim.

In my community, I do occasionally
don swimwear for a dip in the
community pool, taking in the beneficial rays of the sun, as I expose my bronzed, Greek, Adonis-like body to admiring onlookers. I even have lizard-like bumps and spots on my hide, just like T-Rex.

To maintain excellent muscle tone and lightning-quick reflexes, I plan to speak with the
activities coordinator at our retirement community about obtaining a ping pong table as that’s my game, even though I have extremely short forelimbs.

I think T-Rex was a happy guy because he was the original wanderer. As Dion sang, he “roamed around, around, around.” But I’m not sure that is true of the human race, where
many our age are not happy campers.
They’ve looked forward to this time of life, but they’re not truly enjoying retirement. They tend to shelter inside their own little communities. I deeply believe the secret to achieving happiness is to have an active, productive life outside one’s gated community, forest or cave.

Scientific evidence suggests that T-Rex was somewhat social and tolerated those of his own kind. Now I enjoy my solitude, but I’m not anti-social and almost always join the
populace for coffee and donuts on Saturday mornings.

I’m considering partaking in bocce ball and learning tai-chi. However, I adamantly refuse to indulge in the joys of shuffleboard because I know that the moment I pick up the cue-stick, I will officially become prehistoric.
Maybe we could name our little retirement community Jurassic Park. Then we could charge admission and fund the ping pong table.

Michael Wright’s bones can be dug up
in Mulberry, or you can reach him at


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