This morning, after 45 minutes of Zumba class, I was standing underneath one of the overhead fans trying to cool down a little before I ventured back into the women’s shower area.
Most of the time they keep it pretty chilly in there but sometimes something has gone awry with the venting system and it feels like a tropical rainforest.
When that happens I swear I can hear poisonous tree frogs croaking, although it may only be the elderly lady in the next stall humming a tune from “Pat Boone’s Greatest Hits.”
As I stood under the blessed coolness of the fan, my Zumba instructor came up to me and said, “I just have to tell you. You have the nicest legs! I wish mine looked like yours.”
Whoa! This from the woman that all of us older gals would trade our left nipple to look like—tall, thin, long-waisted, perfectly proportioned, and she’s had four kids.
She asked me if I would mind telling her my age, and I don’t mind, so I told her– “I’m 65.”
Made my freakin’ day.