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.