“How ya doin’?” the man on the weight bench asked between pumps. I’d seen him there before: a small, bald, wiry fellow.
“OK,” I said. “How are you?”
“Trying to stay alive. It keeps getting harder. I was at the doctor’s the other day and a man in the waiting room asked me how old I was. I said ‘80.’ He said, ‘I’m 90. You don’t want to be 90.’”
I told him I hadn’t seen him in a while. He said his insurance pays for him to go to a high-end gym, with trainers. “I asked one of the trainers, ‘Which of these machines should I use to impress these pretty young women?’ And he said, ‘Try the ATM.’”
