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Published on February 21st, 2014 | by Richard Black

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Over 80 Looking to Score? How to Work Out and Fit in with the Geriatrics at the Gym

If you’re an octogenarian looking to score I highly recommend visiting your local recreational complex between the hours of 10:00 in the morning. If you happen to be under fifty  and looking to take a nap on a cross trainer I’d encourage you to visit the same place.

Because of my daughter’s schedule I usually exercise my flabby ass by gagging and wheezing through a two or three mile jog around the neighborhood.  Due to the occasional bout of inclement weather however I’m occasionally forced to visit the local recreational complex and for that  I blame my wife.

We picked a preschool near my wife’s work under the misguided belief that Laura could take Darcy to school every once in a while on her way to work.  That has not occurred at least not as often as I was lead to believe.  I am not bitter in the slightest over that particular aspect of our relationship and my function as Darcy’s primary caretaker.  The upshot of the situation is that I burn an extra half hour or so in drive time instead of devoting time to keep myself in prime physical condition, writing various treatises on obscure medical conditions or jot down my many contributions to M Theory and the structure of the space/time continuum.

It’s a tough row to hoe but I try to make the best of it and, by the “best of it” I mean not showing up to my daughter’s school and reeking of body odor.

Unfortunately due to the recent plunging temperatures I’ve been forced to forgo social niceties like showers and have found myself plodding away on treadmills and cross trainers in a heated facility conventionally known as the RecPlex, a contraction of a two words I’ve never thought should be joined together.

“Recreation” is a word I’ve usually associated with hard drugs or a sustained bout of drinking and “Complex” was the name of a drag/tranny/rave bar that burned down back in the 1990’s.

On a side note I also despise the words “manscaping” and “chillaxin”.

You’re either chilling back in the 1990’s or you’re relaxing. If you’re doing both then you’ve been dosed with a Quaalude from 1978.

The term “manscaping” always brings to my mind a flurry of miniature mountain men scrambling up and down through the peaks and valleys of the average body with scissors and razors at the ready, vigilantly on the lookout to hack down any unsightly patch of pubic hair at a moments notice.

But  back to topic.

The median age in the Recreational Complex, or gym with an ice rink as it used to be known, is approximately 87 and the sexual tension is tangible. It took me a while to pick up on the vibe. The 80 year old set is much more subtle about flirtation than the “fuck me” twenty year olds or even my generation. Still I think I’ve been able to decipher a bit of the language of love for the geriatric crowd.

“How are you doing today?” most likely means “It’s good to see you again. Are you single?” and “Let’s have lunch” is almost certainly an invitation for a glass of prune juice, a bit of rough sex and then a nap before dinner.

Don’t get me wrong I think it’s remarkable, really admirable, that men and women who were born during the Hoover administration are out and about and working up a sweat.  I’ve barely managed to figure out how to put on a pair of pants by the time most of them have bonged a bottle of  Ensure, read the paper, taken healthy dose of Metamucil and nearly stroked out by the latest bit of fear mongering on Fox News.

I never thought I’d make it to forty and when I think about the dim future of my eighties I always imagined myself in a shack somewhere in Idaho in a wheelchair, cooking up a batch of moonshine, drinking kerosene and brandishing a loaded gun at anyone who stepped within a half a mile of my property.

I admire these men and women, these elderly. I really do.

I’m just not ready to be grouped in with them quite yet, something the marketing people in the media conglomerates haven’t quite figured out. I’d heard at one point that something like 10% of all men in the past few years were stay-at-home fathers but you’d never know it by the ads that are shown during the day.

While it’s true that I don’t walk around with a constant erection the way I did when I was fourteen I’m pretty certain I don’t need to use Viagra just yet. I’m not exactly happy to be in the demographic that needs to worry about the latest study for people aged 18 to 41 and are addicted to Oxycodone or been the victim of a defective hip transplant but the next time I meet someone who has suffered from a faulty trans-vaginal-mesh procedure I’ll know where to send them.

In the meantime, whenever the mercury drops below 10 degrees Fahrenheit, I’ll continue to work out with my geriatric companions and wonder why in God’s name we’re listening to Phil Collins, Jefferson Starship and other lite rock stars from the 1980s.

Then again the oldsters are probably looking at me and wondering why they have to listen to this new fangled crap.

I can’t say that I blame them.


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