I was at the gym on Sunday and in the middle of a leg-press set, when I suddenly noticed that most of the men were . . . of a certain age. Although I was in my own little bubble, I was drawn out of it by the slow realization that I was surrounded by white hair and balding heads. And when I say “balding”, I mean, balding. Not by fashionable choice, but by actual “oh-my-god-I’ve-lost-all-my-hair”!
At first I didn’t read too much into it except that my “natural” thought was, “Geez! What’s with all the old people today?”
(Yes, I know. I’m gong straight to hell for that one.)
I felt like the visible minority in a cluster of, well . . . old people!
(Yup. Guess I’m going to hell for that one too.)
You see, I don’t ordinarily go to the gym on Sundays because usually I have my kids. But unbeknownst to me, exy-poo had made plans with Jonathan and Samantha for that day. (Lovely word, that “unbeknownst”. I don’t think I’ve ever used it before and look at me now . . . using it twice in the same paragraph. Don’t tell me I’m not growing up!)
Anyways, as I was saying, exy-poo picked them up at around 10 o’clock and I thought, “geesh, what am I supposed to do now?!”
Actually, I didn’t think that at all. And if you know me, you didn’t fall for it either.
What I really thought was, “geesh, all this time on my hands!”
I grabbed my gym bag and off I went . . . to the gym.
And that’s where I saw them all. The geezers. Even though not-a-one-of-them was wearing a t-shirt that confirmed it, you just knew that they were somebody’s grandfather.
It seemed to be 40-plus day at the gym – a little less testosterone-ish and very high in Geritol-users. (Nope. I’m not stereo-typing at all.)
I truly felt like I had entered into the wrong building. Had I walked into an old folks’ home by mistake???
As I was walking around, trying not to make eye contact with any of them (just in case they mis-read my look of complete Alzheimer-confusion for lust) when it hit me: These men aren’t old. They’re my age! They’re my boyfriend’s age!!!
And so here I was thinking I was surrounded in a sea of atrophied testosterone when they were probably looking at me and thinking, “where are all the chicky-poos? If I wanted to see an old lady, I would have stayed at home!”
I realized then and there, that the pool of men for me to draw on has gotten really, really small. Baby pool size. I had better must love Greg. Not because I don’t see “old” when I look at him, but because I still see the person I knew when I was 14 (Yes, we’ve known each other for a while).
Which got me to wondering, what does he see when he looks at me? I’m going to have to figure out a sly-woman-way to ask him that question because obviously if I just ask him, the conversation will go something like this:
“Greg, when you look at me, do you see me old?”
“Of course not. You’re not old.” (Notice the double negatives? The sneak!)
“Well I’m 45.”
“So I’m 47. When you look at me, do you see me old?” (Somehow he always manages to turn the conversation to him.)
“Well then, either do I.”
And of course, I’ll have to accept that; not really knowing the “real” answer.
Hmmmmm I could start calling him “my old man” and see if he starts calling me his “old lady” (If he does, I’ll have to stab him with a fork or something before it becomes a habit. You know. The old pain-association treatment.)
Or I could ask him about some of his friends, who he’s known since high school:
“Do you think Jeff looks old?”
No, that really wouldn’t tell me anything.
Ladies, a little help here please!