There are a couple of undeniably awkward times in a person's life. There are the notoriously terrible teen years, when you're not the cute kid you once were but you're also not the handsome young adult you will become. Then there are the post-middle-age years, when you're not the exasperated but loving parent you once were but you're not yet the adorably wrinkled oldster you will become.
For now, you're just old. You've got a house full of stuff no one -- including the kids who insisted you buy it in the first place -- wants. If you have to mow that huge lawn that seemed like such a good idea 20 years ago one more time, you're going to stab the next passer-by with the pruning shears. And why is every restaurant filled with screaming children so you can't hear yourself think, let alone the complaining of your dinner companion?
You're too young, fit and fantastic for assisted living or a nursing home, but you want a little security mixed in with being social. There is a solution: senior apartments. Where the grown-ups go to party. (Is that a slogan for any senior communities yet? If not, it should be. Maybe we could work out a little deal?)