My days of paying a better-muscled man to make me do exercises have come to an end. We bid adieu two weeks ago, and in that time I’ve managed to drag myself to the gym exactly once. But what care I, when the weather is perfect for short shorts (I always cuff mine) and shirts unbuttoned to one’s sternum?
And if I had any doubts as to the efficacy of having someone telling me exactly what to do and for how long, they were dispelled during a trip to Central Park when I stopped in at the mens room at Bethesda Terrace to use the facilities. The long row of urinals was vacant, and so I walked three quarters of the way down. A gentleman walked past me to the very last urinal. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that he seemed to be shaking the last drops of urine with an unusual force. “He couldn’t be,” I thought to myself. “It’s a Saturday afternoon!” I turned ever so slightly, and lo and behold, he most certainly was fondling his most intimate anatomy. And looking at me sideways.
Of course, I fumbled with my belt trying to get away, which slowed my process. And, might I add, that there were at least two other men to my right? After I washed and dried my hands, he caught my eye from the entrance to a stall, hovering in the doorway and staring at me as I left.
I can’t remember the last time I felt so pretty!