Joie de Vivre Shows on His Face

Joie de Vivre Shows on His Face

This octogenarian follows me in the YMCA circuit, and I think it might bother him when his face puckers any time he must pull a pin and place it at a weight lesser than mine. He’s as tall as me, sweaty and well-built —no droop of spinal arthritis or off-balanced hips. His muscles look Old Hollywood, well trained after seventy-odd years of gyms. They are compact and deft —his tanned skin like that of a basted chicken.

His grunts invite me like a waggled finger to peek between my repetitions. Working industriously, he flexes, his trapeziuses strain against the steel bricks. I want his strength to pull and push steel every other day without complaint. He looks back, and I glance away ashamed, think this man as old as my grandfather should not be ogled at—but his wink tells me he knows he’s still got it, and he’ll be damned if he lets it go without a fight.