My wife and I are both close to eighty, and we’ve lived in the same condo in West LA for almost forty years.
Once upon a time we were the youngest couple in the building.
Now we are unquestionably the oldest.
Young families move in and look at us the way archaeologists study pottery fragments.
They bring us banana bread.
Sometimes they hug us.
And that’s generally when I say something reassuring like:
“Well, I’m probably older than your grandparents. And when I was younger, I dated all kinds of women, so there’s always the possibility we may actually be related.”
That usually freezes the room for a full five seconds.
Then the adults laugh nervously while the children stare at me as if I may once have escaped from federal custody.
Still, the younger people in our building think of us as sweet.
Harmless.
Fragile.
This is incorrect.
Old people are not fragile.
We are survivors.
We survived disco music, avocado-colored refrigerators, polyester leisure suits, six conflicting government food pyramids, and network television executives.
And now we are surviving the witches.
Every condo eventually develops them.
At first they appear normal.
Helpful even.
Then one day they seize control of the HOA.
Suddenly there are mysterious meetings, emotional support bylaws, landscaping emergencies, reserve fund rituals, and passive-aggressive emails arriving at 2:14 in the morning.
I made the mistake of mocking them openly.
This was apparently unwise.
Because shortly afterward both my wife and I became unbelievably tired.
Perhaps it’s old age.
Perhaps it’s long COVID.
Or perhaps a group of retired women in flowing cardigans placed an ancient hex upon Unit 3C.
Frankly, all three explanations now seem equally plausible.
Our doctor has theories.
The witches have better ones.
At our age, survival itself becomes complicated.
Especially housekeeping.
Young couples clean together.
Old couples develop military strategies.
Kate and I now operate what experts would probably call a Tag Team Marriage.
This means one of us cooks while the other collapses nearby in a medically approved position.
Then we switch.
One person unloads half the dishwasher.
The other sits quietly recovering from having opened three lower cupboards.
Forty years ago we could clean the kitchen together in thirty minutes.
Today the operation unfolds like the evacuation of Dunkirk.
At 10 PM someone starts the dishwasher.
At 11 PM someone else discovers laundry that “cannot possibly wait until morning.”
At midnight the microwave begins beeping for reasons nobody understands.
Then one of us vacuums a room that was already vacuumed three days earlier because old people no longer clean dirt.
We clean anxiety.
Meanwhile, the witches lie awake listening through the walls.
I suspect they gather silently in the hallway wearing ceremonial robes purchased during sales at Chico’s.
One whispers:
“They’re using the microwave again.”
Another gasps.
“At this hour?”
“Yes. The old man appears to be reheating tea.”
“Dear God.”
The witches particularly hate our vacuum cleaner.
We call it The Machine.
It roars through the condo after midnight like a wounded buffalo searching for electrical outlets.
I once saw one of the witches near the elevator the morning after a late-night cleaning session.
She looked exhausted.
Not physically exhausted.
Spiritually exhausted.
As though somewhere around 1:40 AM she had realized we might outlive them all.
The real problem is that Kate and I are both bossy.
We love each other deeply, but we also spend large portions of every evening attempting to maneuver the other person into doing small household tasks.
Marriage counseling experts rarely discuss this phase of life.
At our age romance evolves.
You no longer whisper:
“You look beautiful tonight.”
Instead you whisper:
“I emptied the upper rack of the dishwasher.”
And your spouse looks at you with genuine admiration.
Sometimes desire.
Our appliances now operate continuously in shifts like a wartime factory.
The dishwasher finishes.
The washing machine begins.
The dryer enters the conflict.
The microwave contributes morale support.
By 2:30 AM the entire condo sounds like a Soviet submarine attempting to surface beneath Santa Monica.
And still we continue.
Because that’s what old couples do.
We improvise.
We adapt.
We nap between naps.
We keep moving.
And perhaps that is why older people and children understand each other so well.
Children suspect monsters hide behind doors.
Old people suspect monsters run the condo board.
After forty years in West LA, I’m no longer certain either group is wrong.
Author’s note: This is a work of humor and imagination. Any resemblance to real witches, condo boards, reserve fund guardians, emotionally unstable landscaping committees, ceremonial vacuum complaints, or midnight microwave surveillance teams is purely coincidental and probably being discussed in executive session.
