Octogenarian Gym Rat


 Octogenarian Gym Rat


No beach star kicked sand in my face.

If the fabled bully had sand-blasted me,

         I would have moved to a safer beach.

I clearly would not have consulted Charles Atlas.

Nor was I interested in having six-pack abs,

        which is like wearing

         an oversized washboard.

I did not wince when I looked

         into the full-length mirror.

But one day I had trouble

         getting out of my easy chair.

And I continued having trouble

         turning the lids off jars and tubes.

Both good reasons to find a club

         and become a gym rat.

There was no senior citizen discount

         and I could quickly see why.

The many grey heads there looked as if

          they had been prompted

          by a whispered health warning        

         from the hooded one

         with the scythe.

So here I am after

          a crazy mix up

         of the periodic table

         pumping iron during my golden years.

A torture machine for every muscle

         except the one to remove lids.

I watch carefully to see

          if anyone is looking

         before I lower the weights

         on the machines left

         by a skinny older lady.

I read the posted message

         about proper attire.

No jeans or open-toed shoes.

Members were to be costumed

         as if on a movie set.

Sweat suits with famous names emblazoned.

Cross-training shoes

          and headbands.

I wear my every-day clothes,

          as I have never worn the uniform

          of the day.

Proper attire for octogenarians

         need not include provisions

         for sweat absorbency.

By my 82nd birthday,

         I have no juices left

         to leak on my fine silk shirt.


I have had fun comparing my exercise routine to some of the cops and firemen who work out at the same rime/Oh My!