“During this heatwave, please remember to dress for the body you have, not the body you want.” – Unknown
There was a time when I lived for the sun and joined in with the sunbathing crowd. In high school it might have been the old swimmin’ hole or the pool in Fort Mill or Springs Park…Springmaid Beach on vacation.
Later there was the green grass known as Cromer Beach at Newberry College next to the women’s dorm or Macedonia Beach near the church with the same name on Lake Murry. The local radio station would periodically issue a burn alert accompanied by the ding of an oven timer.
The aroma of Coppertone was heavy in the air. The smell of nubile, young women in bathing suits laying around the pool, rendering in Johnsonâs Baby Oil or some coconut butter âtanning lotionâ. Young men cannon balling off the diving board trying to get the attention of that certain someone.
There is something about the scent of Coppertone that brings back memories. A black two piece on a deeply tanned, dark-haired senior coed who took pity on a tongue-tied Sophomore one Sunday at Macedonia Beach. Epic.
Now it is about the smell of burning flesh as I have another batch of cancer cells cut from my body and the incision cauterized. âBe sure your sins will find you out.â There will be a time when you must âpay the piper.â When it comes to the sun, I have been found out and the piper continues to insist upon his âcutâ.
Now it is more about sitting around the pool under a massive umbrella covered in SP100 with the smell of BBQ rendering in its own fat. Ribs or butts being prepared by someone else. If I have my “druthers” I sit inside in the air conditioning swilling a gin and tonic or Meyerâs Dark Rum and tonic, with a twist of limeâŠa beer will do but I must get my dose of citrus.
Iâve become the old fart who pontificates about the good old days. Stories embellished from a lifetime mired in the past. The nubile young hanging on my every word are neither as nubile nor young as I remember.
To quote BuffettâŠagain, âOne day soon I’ll be a grandpa. All the pretty girls will call me, “Sir”. Now where they’re asking me how things are, soon they’ll ask me how things were.â I hate to tell you Jimmy, weâve both reached that milepostâŠand it is in our rear-view mirror.
In addition to losing the skin encasing my body, I donât sweat well. At any temperature above seventy-five my sweat glands work like Niagara Falls after the spring snow melt. I donât glisten like a Southern Belle; I gush and continue to gush well after I quit my activity.
I didnât notice it so much during my younger days. I guess I was too intent on the young females in skimpy bathing suits. I did notice it in the hay, corn, and cotton fields of my youth but then there were no girls about to distract me. There was no scent of Coppertone to inhale, just the scent of âOde de Donâ as certain areas became yeasty with the heat generated from my effort.
I was reminded of this, this past weekend. My walking friend was out of town, and I decided to do our weekly walk without him. During my days running before my knees let me down, Saturdays were what I called LSD runsâŠyou had to be tripping to do them…especially in the summer. No, LSD stood for long, slow distance. For me, during those days of yesteryear, it was usually a ten miler. Now, in real time, it is a five miler, walking.
Due to so much uncluttered time with no one to talk to, I was forced to do something I rarely doâŠthink. What I thought about was how thankful I was to be on the trail this beautiful if humid morning. What made me more thankful were the large numbers of people who appeared to be, like me, refugees from a geriatric ward.
These were âseasonedâ men and women who were trying to outride, outrun, or out walk the grim reaper. I was particularly motivated by the much older couple who strolled up the slight incline using walking canes while holding hands. There was a young man who came screaming up the incline on his low-slung hand powered bicycle, useless legs just along for the ride. AMAZING AND MOTIVATING!
I want to apologize to the three older men I met. Not for what I thought or said, but for the fact my jaw went slack and agape when I saw the large expanse of white skin and hair from their shirtless bodies. Guys, I know it was hot and humid, but you should not run without a shirt. In fact, anything you might do without a shirt should be privately contained.  “Guys, I apologize for my facial expression, but you looked like three very pale Mr. Potato Heads.“
My tee shirt had gained about a pound of sweat, but I would never take it off in a public place…not even at a pool. I am in fairly good shape…for my age…but have reached the age that I now try to sneak up on mirrors when naked or partially naked.Â
Despite all the bicep curls I do; my arms are sticklike. Pushups canât keep my chest from falling into my stomach, sit ups and planks canât keep my stomach from collapsing into my rear, and I donât know where my rear is going. I guess into my feet because they are still growing.
My years of sunbathing, waiting for the transistor radio to alert me when to turn are over. So are my ten-mile LSD runs. I still reserve the right to ogle ladies in swimsuits and spandex. The cute little girl, probably thirty plus, who ran by me, her ponytail bouncing, was like a chocolate dessert. She smiled sweetly as she sprinted by, and I watched in appreciation of the female form. It is okay to look if I donât touch. I would be like an old dog chasing a car. If I caught it, I wouldnât know what to do with it anyway.
Jimmy Buffett’s ode to aging. “Nothing But a Breeze.”
Don Miller writes at https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM?fbclid=IwAR3U6N5NmXWSwpqgCTf-ex4Akj7DmVnUX6kcaN6hEyBC-iHxGtJMeKQrMz0
Ravings of a Mad Southerner 