She chuckles the slightest bit, the sort of inviting laugh that says we’re on the same page. Sort of. “My point exactly. Who in their right mind actually likes bingo? Nobody here wants to play bingo. We only do it because we’re bored. In fact, I’ve already lined up cohorts to protest the never-ending bingo offerings in this place.”
“The bingo revolt is upon us?”
She narrows her eyes. “Consider yourself warned.”
I nod solemnly, then speak from the heart. “Roxanne, I’m trying. I swear, I’m trying.” I don’t add that there’s so much red tape at Sunshine Living that I need a machete to cut my way through the overgrown jungle of bureaucracy here. You don’t go around dumping your work woes on your customers. So I put on my best Happiness Hero hat, and say, “I submitted a number of proposals for new activities. I have some great ideas I want to implement, like Zumba classes, macaron tasting, and Riverside Park walks. I’ve put them in front of the board, and I’m really hoping they approve my plans.”
My plans rock. They are compelling and well-written, and they spell out all the bennies. Only a total fun-slayer like Travis would shoot them down. But I’m hopeful that the other board members put more stock in common sense and, oh, say, data and research.
A sliver of a smile seems to tug at Roxanne’s lips. “Zumba, you say?”
I execute a few zippy Zumba steps. I think my body must be programmed for motion, the way joy whips through me as I demonstrate. “Yes. Have you ever tried it? It’s great for mental and physical health. I outlined some of the key health benefits for the over-fifty set in my proposal. There are so many studies about how good it is for your core.”
One perfectly groomed silver eyebrow lifts, and mischief flares in Roxanne’s eyes. “And for the libido, I hear.”
I tuck a strand of blonde hair behind my ear, pausing to consider whether I’d be breaking the rules if I discussed libidos with the residents. Since I don’t know the answer, I respond in an offhand way. “That’s possible too.”
She raises a make-a-point finger. “Along those lines, you might consider a game of Would You Rather for the residents. Or a Would You Rather bar hop. This hood has some very hip drinking establishments, as you may know.”
A cough bursts from my chest, and I gesture for her to lower the volume, whispering, “I would be fired if I organized a bar hop.”
“Please, darling. I’ve been old enough to drink longer than you’ve been alive. Maybe double.”
She’s probably not wrong. But still. I’m not a drink alchemist or an alcohol tour guide for senior citizens, especially since Travis’s response to a bar hop suggestion would be But we don’t know about any contraindications of the prescription meds our residents are on; ergo, there is no room on the schedule.
“Would You Rather isn’t a bad idea for a game night in though,” I say diplomatically, doing my best to maintain the requisite chipper attitude.
I do have a chipper attitude.
Well, most of the time. When I can actually make a difference—the very thing I wanted to do in the first place when I took this job. My cover letter was bursting with enthusiasm and plans. Travis even said he’d never seen a job candidate with so many creative ideas.
And yet, here I am. Wizard of Bingo Scheduling.
Roxanne lifts her cane, curling her fingers around the puma head. “Or how about something more practical for an activity? I have a fabulous idea.”
I hold my hands out wide, letting her know I’m all ears. “I love suggestions. What do you have in mind?”
Her cool eyes glint. “A session on how to make a great dating profile. An Ins and Outs of Tinder class.”
Hmm. A class on Tinder isn’t a discussion on libidos, so I can entertain this topic. “Go on,” I say.
“Like, for instance, how do I know if I’m being hatfished?”
I smile helpfully. “You mean catfished?”
She shakes her head, her silver mane swishing. “No, hatfished. It’s quite common with my generation. That’s when a man wears hats all the time to hide his lack of hair.”
I stifle a laugh. “Oh, well. Dating truly is full of hazards.”
“Exactly. And don’t even get me started on the submarining. I refuse to be a victim of that foul trend.”
I pump a fist in solidarity. “The last guy I went out with did that to me—ghosted me then reappeared out of nowhere without so much as an explanation.”
“I hope you torpedoed him,” she says, and we’re sisters-in-arms suddenly.
“Of course.” I take a beat, studying the savvy woman in front of me. “Seems you already know the ins and outs of online dating, Roxanne.”
She shrugs coyly. “Fine, maybe I do. I have profiles on Tinder, Bumble, and POF. But there is always something to learn. Like, if I swipe right on the gentleman down the hall, is he going to expect me to have a conversation here first? Because sometimes I want conversation, and sometimes I simply have no patience for small talk. But how do I set expectations on the latter occasions, when I primarily want to get to the good stuff?” Her expression is dead serious. “These are important topics for the modern woman.”
