Following my stroke, I decided it might be time to take this exercise business a little more seriously.
Coincidentally, my Medicare supplement provides a free gym membership. Apparently Medicare and my doctors have joined forces.
So I recently went to the local rec center to explore my options. I hadn’t actually exercised yet, but I was giving it some serious thought.
I was standing near a vending machine after working up quite a sweat watching other people work out. It was exhausting.
I was eyeballing a 3 Musketeers bar, wondering whether eating it inside a fitness center canceled out the calories, when I overheard two women talking.
They were probably in their mid-to-late 70s, pedaling stationary bikes. Gray hair. Grandmotherly looking.
Then one said, “My boyfriend Dave and I are going to Chicago this weekend for a romantic getaway.”
I nearly choked on air.
Boyfriend?
Romantic getaway?
Chicago?
I looked at the women. Then at the 3 Musketeers. For a moment, I wasn’t sure which one of us had wandered into the wrong building.
But I couldn’t help smiling.
“Boyfriend” is a word I associate with junior-high dances, passing notes in study hall and wondering whether somebody likes you or “likes likes” you.
At 17, it sounds perfectly normal.
At 77, it sounds downright wonderful.
Maybe it caught my attention because I’ve been thinking about dating again myself. A while back, I mentioned the idea to my son.
“I think I’d like to start dating again.”
He looked at me.
“Dad, you’re 67. Almost 68.”
There was a pause. Then came the encouragement every single father hopes to receive from his son.
“Good joke.”
Thanks, son.
Have you ever poured a glass of milk, taken a big swallow, then noticed the expiration date was ten days ago? You look at the glass. You look at the jug. Then you wonder whether what you swallowed tasted funny.
That was how I felt.
Apparently, I had passed my dating expiration date.
Best if used by 65. After that, refrigerate and hope for the best.
Yet here was a woman probably 10 years older than me, pedaling away and talking about her boyfriend Dave.
Maybe I wasn’t expired after all.
When did we decide romance belonged only to young people?
At 20, you may look across the table wondering whether this person could be “the one.” At 70, perhaps you’re grateful someone is sitting across from you — someone to talk with, laugh with and call just to see how you’re doing. Someone who remembers you don’t like onions.
At my age, remembering anything counts for something.
Life takes plenty from us as the years pass: people we love, our health, some independence and a little hair. In my case, considerably more than a little.
But perhaps we shouldn’t surrender the possibility that something wonderful might still happen.
Another dinner. Another dance. Another first kiss. Another name on the phone that makes you smile.
I walked away from the vending machine without buying the 3 Musketeers. That may have been the most impressive physical accomplishment of my visit.
The women kept pedaling and talking. I never learned anything more about Dave.
But I hope that somewhere in Chicago, two people with gray hair sat across from each other and forgot, for a little while, how old they were supposed to be.
And maybe someday I’ll do the same.
Because despite what my son thinks, people aren’t cartons of milk.
Neither are our hearts.
Love doesn’t come with an expiration date.
— Steven Arkema
Steven Arkema is a retired correctional counselor and lifelong Iowan who writes personal humor about aging, family and the everyday situations that remind us not to take ourselves too seriously. He lives in Knoxville, Iowa, where his dog, Darby, provides both companionship and occasional column material.