Who doesn’t love the sun? I always worshiped it in the most delicious, but unhealthy ways, especially when I was young. My altars were rooftops, beaches and convertibles. I always dreaded the end of daylight saving time, when it was shockingly dark at 5 p.m. (It takes place this year on Sunday, Nov. 3, at 2 a.m.) I didn’t like spending the next six months as the sun’s jilted lover, waiting for it to come crawling back to me from Rio, or wherever it had run off to.
I had lunch with a friend last September who’s a few years older than me (I’m 64). He and his wife are in advertising. We hadn’t talked for a while, so I looked forward to our catching up at a local bistro. From the moment we sat down to eat, he began telling me about their rejuvenated sex life. You’d have thought he was 18 the way he carried on, a glow in his eyes.
If I thought my high school physical education coaches were still alive, I’d write them all demand letters:
I want the C’s you gave me every semester changed to A’s. In so doing, my GPA would be raised to where it should have been. I was an athlete, even if you didn’t know it.
For much of my life, I could take or leave fireworks.
But that was before I rented the 1955 movie, Summertime, directed by David Lean. In it, Katharine Hepburn plays a spinster school teacher who takes a vacation in Venice and winds up having an affair with the suave owner of an antique store, played by Rossano Brazzi. Upon seeing a phallic- shaped, red wine goblet in his shop window, she decides she has to have it. Romance ensues.
On the brink of turning 63 last fall, I was determined to prove that I had outfoxed the aging process. So I signed up for boot camp class at my neighborhood health club. I figured I could still do an hour of classic military exercises: squats, thrusts, jumping jacks, planks, sprints and more. I was a boomer whose body hadn’t gone boom. Or so I thought.