I swear this happened in a span of about ten minutes.
Last week, I'm in my local gym, where I've worked on and off for twelve years,
most recently as the Fitness Manager, until I was fired by my District Manager,
the reputed great-great granddaughter of Adolf Hitler. I'm in the gym, free of charge,
because of the good graces of my former General Manager, Jim. He knows and
understands the nature of the corporate beast. He also knows Hitler's granddaughter,
who, by the way, has left the company to raise her second demon child.
Anyway, I walk in, and at the front desk is Melissa, a very cute and sexy receptionist
who always liked me and who I hadn't seen in months.
"Arunas, how are you...?"
"Well, I still don't have a job, two jobs I thought I had I don't, my unemployment is running out,
my car's transmission is dying, I need a hip replacement, no med insurance, I'm $30,000
in debt and last December I turned sixty-fuckin'-three!"
That's a bit too much bad news for anybody to swallow, especially someone who knew me
when I was "the shit". But, she paused for a moment searching for a response, looked at me
and said, "But you look good!"
I laughed, and ten seconds later Maria, a former training client, walked by.
"Arunas, how are you...?"
"Don't even ask...I still don't have a job, two jobs I thought I had..."
"I know it's tough out there..but you look good!"
Across the front desk, another former client, Larry the Lawyer, was getting off an elliptical machine. Larry, unlike most of his breed, is a nice, sweet guy.
"So, Arunas, howya doin'?"
"Oh, Jeez, I still haven't found a job, now I need a hip replacement, the car's dyin'..."
Larry didn't miss a beat. Sympathetic, hand on chin, deliberating...
"But you look good!"
Over the past month, I've heard "...BUT YOU LOOK GOOD" at least five other times.
What is that?
I think it comes under the category of "a-thing-to-say-when-you-don't-know-what-to-say".
But, in my case, it also happens to be true. I do look good. Especially for an old geezer of
sixty-three. Attribute it to good genes, an optimistic, sometimes arrogant "devil-may-care","never-say-die" attitude, intense exercise, running and sports for most of my life, long and short periods of
intense love and sex, enthusiastic masturbation, two packs a day (cigarettes then, little cigars now),
megatons of drinking, whatever!
Point is, "I am what I am, I'm Popeye", the ironman. (If only I could find my Olive and keep her).
Who knows what's next? Will I find a meaningful job? Will I make enough money to survive and be
able to pass some on to my son? Will I finally find the peace of mind to write "the book"? Does
or should anyone really give a shit whether I'm around or not? Who knows?
But I look good!