She sat in the pool of an association in a very nice area of Phoenix and pontificated on what constitutes the perfect life — hers.

She held court to the small group of senior citizens, mostly widowed women
on fixed incomes, bobbing up and down in the pool near her.

She grew up in Flint, glad to be out and never going back to Michigan again adding a “Thank God.”

She had worked it all out — new husband, who sat quietly in the hot tub, new life, new condo to go with a new home in Southern California — heaven.

She offered such gems of wisdom as “Have to take advantage of every moment going forward. There’s no going back and we’re not getting any younger, dearies.” The bobbers bobbed assent.

Apparently, everything had fallen into place by her force of determination, will and skill.

Someone asked her how long she and her husband had been married.

“How long, dear?” as if he was taking the SAT.

He replied with a smile, “Three years.”

“And how many months?” she demanded.

He hesitated and she didn’t wait for him to figure it out, “Four. Three years and four months. All glorious, right dear?”

Somehow the topic of hot tubs came up and apparently the husband had owned hot tubs along the way in his previous life. He said that tending a hot tub was pretty simple; the water has to be changed a couple times a year and during the summer the heater would be shut off.

“Oh, no, dear. Not for me.” Turning to the bobbers, she said, “We are planning on having a hot tub at the home in California where we live when we are not here at the condo and the heater will be on year round.”

The husband remained silent.

A man, a snowbird from Michigan, who sat reading the Sunday paper at a table near the pool asked her if she had ever been along the magnificent shores of Lake Michigan across the state from Flint with all the gorgeous dunes all the way up — the cute, seaside towns, the Sleep Bear Dunes, the Leelanau Peninsula — down and around Little and Big Traverse Bays and on up to Petoskey, the Big Bridge over to Rt. 2 and west across the lower UP, the northern shore of the azure waters of Lake Michigan — as the ads say “Pure Michigan” or as others might say — heaven.

She offered a dismissive yes, which made him think she might not have been to those places but didn’t want to admit it — admit to such a limited childhood as far as travel was concerned — travel just a short way across the state from Flint.

Then she said in a haughty tone, “Doesn’t matter. Not going back under any circumstances. Way too cold.”

Made the man wonder what really happened back in Flint.

“Not really. Not in the glorious spring, summer and fall. Actually, winter, too, is glorious, but now as seniors we want the best of all seasons and so we are here,” he replied.

Having already turned away while he was mid-sentence, she went on and on like the Oracle of Delphi with one exception: the Oracle always waited to be asked a question.

She said something about having been a nurse and a top hospice administrator.

The man, who had put the paper down by then, asked intently because he had worked for hospice in Michigan and thought they might have worked for the same hospice, “In Michigan?”

“No,” she chuckled. “Las Vegas and here in Arizona where it is warm if not hot.”

Some like it hot, he thought to himself.

He said, “Well then, you know the old joke among hospice nurses.”

“No.” She didn’t ask what and didn’t bother looking his way.

“That those nurses who couldn’t make it in the field became administrators.”

Actually, he didn’t say that; he just wanted to.