Dear Mean Grannies: I didn’t survive life to relive Year 9

I’m 63, living in a Lifestyle Village, and for the most part, I love it.

The lawns are neat. The bins go out on time. Someone always knows where to get the cheapest mandarins. There’s a comforting rhythm to village life – a sense that we’ve all agreed to stop proving ourselves and start enjoying the spoils of survival.

And yet.

Somewhere between the weekly newsletter and the passive-aggressive note about parking, it dawned on me:

I’ve accidentally enrolled in Year 9 again.

Because just like school, there are girls. Not girls, of course – women. Fully grown, Medicare-card-carrying, wrinkle-cream-buying women. But still, somehow, they want to rule the playground.

They gather in small clusters. They whisper. They sigh loudly. They have opinions about curtains, pets, visitor frequency, lawn length and whether Margaret at number 47 is “really following the rules”.

And oh, the bitching.

It’s not subtle. It’s not productive. And it’s absolutely exhausting.

So the question becomes: Do you say something? Or do you keep your mouth shut and quietly thank the universe you’re not sitting at their lunch table?

Let’s unpack this, shall we?

First, some truth we don’t say out loud

Retirement villages don’t magically remove personalities. They concentrate them.

Take a lifetime of habits, preferences, insecurities and unresolved need for control, remove the distractions of work and child-rearing, and place everyone within walking distance of one another – and voilà! A social experiment worthy of its own Netflix series.

Some people cope with ageing by becoming more flexible, kinder and curious.

Others cope by becoming head of the rules committee, even if no such committee exists.

These are the women who:

Know exactly how things “should” be done

Feel personally offended when they’re not consulted

Believe harmony is achieved through compliance

Confuse community with conformity

They are not evil. They are bored, anxious, and clinging to relevance like a laminated noticeboard.

Should you say something?

Short answer: sometimes. Long answer: rarely, carefully, and never while emotionally loaded.

There’s a fantasy many of us have – delivering a perfectly worded speech that silences the gossipers, restores peace, and earns quiet applause from nearby pot plants.

In reality, confrontation often does this instead:

Turns you into “difficult”

Fuels more gossip (now starring you)

Achieves nothing except elevated blood pressure

If the behaviour is harmless but irritating, silence is often the smarter power move. Not every opinion needs correcting. Not every comment deserves oxygen. Not every woman needs educating.

Sometimes the most mature response is to opt out of the conversation entirely.

That’s not weakness. That’s wisdom.

But what if it crosses a line?

Now, if the behaviour is:

Cruel

Targeted

Repetitive

Or affecting your enjoyment of daily life

Then yes – a calm, brief boundary can be surprisingly effective. Not a lecture. Not a character assassination. A boundary.

Something like: “I’m really enjoying living here, and I’m trying to keep things positive. I’d rather not talk about other residents.”

Or the classic:

“That’s not really my cup of tea.”

Delivered kindly. Repeated calmly. Without explanation.

You are not required to justify your refusal to participate in nonsense.

The quiet joy of not joining the group

Here’s the thing no one tells you: You don’t need to belong to every social circle to belong.

Lifestyle villages can make it feel like there’s an invisible hierarchy – the morning walkers, the committee queens, the loud laughers on the deck at happy hour.

But real belonging often happens quietly:

One good neighbour who waves

A shared joke at the letterbox

A coffee with someone who doesn’t complain for sport

You’re not there to be popular. You’re there to be peaceful. And peace often lives a few steps away from the loudest voices.

Why it feels worse than it should

There’s a special sting to this kind of behaviour at our age. We expect better. We’ve raised families. Held jobs. Lost people. Survived things. Surely, surely, we should be beyond playground politics by now?

But ageing doesn’t automatically confer emotional maturity. It just gives us more time to display whatever we already had.

And sometimes, the most grown-up thing you can do is quietly decide: “I’m too old for this rubbish.”

A word on looking after yourself

You say you’re not much of a follower.

Good.

That means you already have the most important skill for village life: self-trust. Trust your instincts when something feels off. Trust your right to enjoy where you live. Trust that you don’t owe anyone your agreement, approval or participation.

And above all, trust this: You don’t need to fix the mean grannies.

They existed before you arrived. They’ll exist after the next AGM. And they’ll probably be complaining about something by morning tea.

The final word (from the back of the playground)

If you can ignore it – ignore it.

If you can redirect it – redirect it.

If you must address it – do so briefly and calmly.

But don’t let it steal your joy. You’ve earned better than whispered criticism about pot plants and parking spots. You didn’t survive life, love, work and loss to be undone by a woman named Cheryl who thinks everyone’s hedge is too tall.

Smile. Choose your people. Protect your peace.

And remember: The playground only has power if you keep turning up to it.