You're Just Right for Me

It started with altruistic intent, followed by a walk across the room. When you reach the age of fifty, and you're grateful for all a sport has given you, bodybuilding in my case, you want to give something back, help others realize whatever goals they set for themselves.

That room was The Fitness Factory, a well-equipped gym located in a suburban strip mall on the East Coast. I trained there three days a week, down from the more intense regimen I followed when I competed in my twenties and early thirties. Muscle atrophy, not to mention strength, is a fact of life as athletes go kicking and screaming into middle-age. Maintenance is the name of the game by then, doing your best to stave off the ravages of Father Time. I still looked good, still carried around enough size and muscularity to get noticed on the beach, which gave me a huge ego boost, especially when those looking were young enough to be my son or daughter.

Veronica Landsman was one such "youngster," though I met her at the Factory, not at a beach resort. After seeing her struggling with a set of squats, I took that aforementioned walk across the room to help. Her form was all wrong—she was bending her back instead of keeping it straight when she came out of the squat position. "Keep doing it that way and you'll end up in a back brace," I said. Still breathing heavily, she had just finished her set of ten reps and was seated on a flat bench to recover.

Even before she said anything, her expression conveyed annoyance at what she considered an intrusion. "Is that so?" she said, narrowing her pretty green eyes and throwing a hand on her hip. "And how would you know that?"

Through my own experience, I said, telling her about the time as a teen just starting out, I pulled my spinal erector muscles doing squats like that, setting me back six weeks to heal. "I learned the hard way," I said. "Correct form can spare you what I went through."

She nodded, looked me up and down and then asked my age. "You're fifty?! Get outta here!"

I took that as a compliment. Obviously my still sharp muscularity offset my graying hair and the wrinkles that had started to creep around my eyes and across my forehead. Because she asked, I gave her a brief history of my competitive bodybuilding career, modestly successful compared with the hulking physical specimens that strutted their stuff at the Mr. Olympia, Mr. Universe, etc, and I did it without all the juice those guys shot into their veins.

"So, can I help you?" I said, fairly confident that I had won her over. "Or would you rather do it your way and risk serious injury?"

She nodded. "All right, go ahead. I'd look ridiculous arguing with a guy with a pair of delts and quads like yours."

The bar sat on the squat rack, loaded to 185 pounds, still a warm-up weight for me but close to a high-rep max for her. Slipping under the bar, I did eight easy reps like you're supposed to, keeping my back straight. I then took off the 25 pound plates from each side, bringing the weight down to 135 pounds. "You might have had too much weight," I said. "Do a set with this."

She stood up, grabbed the hems of her tight spandex shorts and stretched them down a couple inches. Even so, three-quarters of her tan, shapely thighs were exposed. Lots of millennial women at The Fitness Factory dressed this way, a distraction I had yet to hear one guy complain about. After tightening her lifting belt, she got the bar on her shoulders, stepped back a few feet and began her set. The first few reps went fine. But, by the fifth rep, she reverted back to her old form, bending forward. Moving in, I placed my left hand over her lower back, my right hand across her upper chest to keep her rigid. "That's it, back straight, head up," I instructed, and then moved aside to watch her complete her remaining reps correctly.

"That does feel better," she said after racking the bar. "Sometimes, doing squats the other way, I'd come away with a sore lower back. Thanks for your help." Then she extended her hand. "I'm Veronica."

"Kirk Harris. If you need help with anything else, let me know."

She smiled. "Well, Kirk, now that you mention it..."

She told me she had been lifting only a few months. Prior to that, she hadn't exercised since college, when she played on her school's volleyball team. "I've put on a few pounds," she said, pinching skin around her waist and oblique muscles. "So I'd like to bring my weight down to what it was then, and, you know, just look good."

To my eyes, she already looked "good." When guys hit middle-age, all young girls look good. She stood five-foot ten, my height, and weighed around 160 pounds, twenty pounds over her college weight. Maybe it's because I hadn't dated much since my divorce three years ago, but as we talked, I felt compelled to kiss that adorable mouth of hers, small, with a ChapStick model's lips, perfectly formed and oh so kissable. From her gratified smile, I sensed she might have picked up on that. Women, even less than perceptive women, know intuitively when they're being ogled in some way.

"Overweight" or not, Veronica oozed sex appeal, at least to me and I suspected active, athletic types like me. What, with her long, powerful legs, her emerald eyes, clear, fair complexion and the clean, fresh smell of her hair, light brown and pinned up in one long pony tail that hung down on the left side of her face past her ear.

"The only place I didn't grow larger was up here," she said, cupping her hands under her blue sports top. "It figures," she said, chucking, "I gain size everywhere else but my boobs where I really need it." Her boobs looked fine to me, an opinion I kept to myself. Per her request, I did suggest various exercises she could do to firm up her arms, to bring out triceps and biceps that had atrophied from lack of exercise.

"My legs," she went on, rubbing her hands sensuously over her thighs, "they were always strong and solid. I do leg extensions as well as squats and calf raises to keep them that way. I was quite a spiker back in college."

"I bet," I said, trying not to stare at them too lustily. "I imagine you had quite a vertical leap."

She smiled. "Yeah, you could say that." Then, after a brief pause, she said, "So, what do you do, Kirk, when you're not in pumping iron and helping has-been jocks like me keep in shape?" When I told her I was an orthopedist, specializing in sports medicine, she got wide-eyed. "Really?! No wonder you were so concerned about my squat form. Well then, I guess I should call you Doctor Harris, huh?"

"Kirk will do just fine." She revealed she was a dental hygienist when I reversed the question. "No wonder you have such fine teeth." I glanced at my watch. "Well, one more set of sit-ups and I'm outta here," I said. "Nice meeting you, Veronica. Hope to see you again."

"Yes, me too. Thanks for the help. And you can call me Ronnie."

****

Over the next few days, thoughts of Ronnie intruded into my busy schedule. The young lady knew my age, so harboring illusions of anything beyond a mentoring friendship with her seemed ludicrous. When I was born, LBJ was still president. When she was born, it was Bush forty-one. When I came of age, the internet didn't exist. When she came of age, it was a world-wide fact of life. She was around the same age as my daughter, a generation removed. Rock stars got involved with women young enough to be their daughters (and grand-daughters in some cases), not silver-haired orthopedists. And yet, I had to admit that if she showed any interest beyond gym talk, I just might pursue it. I looked forward to seeing her again, assuming it would be at The Fitness Factory.

The question was, when? Two weeks passed and no Ronnie. Then, on a late weekday afternoon, my secretary buzzed me. "A Veronica Landsman is here to see you. She doesn't have an appointment. However, she did give me her medical insurance information." I had just finished seeing my last patient of the day and was preparing to leave.

"Doctor Harris, I mean Kirk," she said when I went to the waiting room, "I apologize for just walking in here without an appointment. But this thing..."

Her "thing," as she went on to describe it, was a sharp pain in her upper right thigh that traveled down to her foot, severe enough where she could no longer do leg work, including running on the treadmill. After telling my secretary she could leave, I ushered Ronnie into the examination room and gave her a hospital gown to change into. With her hair down, she looked even cuter, though I did my best to keep my attraction submerged under my professional facade.

"The way clothes reflect someone's image always amazes me," she remarked after changing. "When we met, you wore sneakers, shorts and a sleeveless muscle shirt. Now you're in a white lab coat over a button-down dress shirt and dress pants." I couldn't resist asking her what "image" appealed to her more. "In here, it's your doctor image. In the gym, when you were helping me, it was your physique-revealing wardrobe. Honestly, you look great either way."

"Thanks," I said, feeling a tingle in my solar plexus. It was a struggle not to return the compliment, but I managed and got on with the exam.

Because of the nature of her pain, her primary care physician had sent her to a neurologist. "But he was stumped," she said. "He thought I might have torn a tendon and suggested I see an orthopedist."

"What tendon, did he say?" I asked skeptically. She shrugged.

Ronnie sat on the exam table while I felt around where she said was the source of her discomfort. Next, I had her stand up and move her leg in various positions while I probed and prodded from hip to foot. Her legs were beautiful—firm, smooth and shapely, the epitome of sexy female muscle. She appeared relaxed, not at all shy about a male doctor feeling her up. I could just imagine what would come next under different circumstances. Ethical to a fault, I wasn't about to create one in my office.

Nerves were out of my medical bailiwick, but I was fairly confident about what was going on. "You have an impacted femoral nerve," I said.

"An impacted what?"

"Sometimes nerves get caught between strands of muscles, especially well-developed thigh muscles like you have. The fact that your pain centers on the iliacus muscle and then travels to your foot is a clear indication of your problem. There's no telling when it will loosen. However, cortisone might hasten things along, reduce the inflammation."

"You really think so?"

"It's worth a shot, no pun intended."

"Now?"

"Sure, unless you'd like to get a second opinion."

She smiled warmly. "You ARE my second opinion, and you sound confident in your diagnosis. So shoot me up, doc."

She sat on the exam table as I prepared the needle. She looked uneasy, like a little girl dreading what she knows will come next. "Will it hurt?"

I chuckled. "It will be excruciating, you'll scream in pain." She laughed along. "Seriously, you'll have minor soreness for a couple days. After that, hopefully, you'll be pain-free, ready to resume your leg work."

After she put back on her white pants suit, I walked her out to the parking lot. "Thanks for seeing me at such short notice," she said.

"My pleasure."

I was about to return to my car when she said, "Listen, Kirk, can I treat you to dinner? You were so nice about me barging in without an appointment, it's the least I can do."

"Ronnie, you don't have to—ˮ

"I know I don't have to, but I want to. Please, let me do this."

"Okay, but nothing fancy."

"It won't be, not unless you consider McDonald's fancy." She caught my look of surprise. "Ha, I had you there, didn't I?"

"I know, you really meant Burger King."

"Actually, I meant Applebee's. It's healthy and reasonable."

"Sold."

A half mile and just minutes later, we were there. Seated by a window, we had a clear view of Roscoe Boulevard, a busy secondary road streaming with late day, rush hour traffic. I ordered the cedar salmon with sides of rice and greens; Ronnie chose the cedar chicken. It was beer for both of us, Samuel Adams on tap. "Here's to a quick recovery," I said, holding up my glass mug.

As we clinked glasses, I felt somewhat confused as to what my role should be. First, I was her fitness mentor and then her doctor. Sitting here, I wasn't sure what dynamic was at work. Given the disparity in our ages, the idea of a romantic prospect seemed ridiculous. Had we been closer in age, there's no question I'd have pursued her. She was very pretty, enhanced by the sort of feminine voice I love to hear, soft and subtly seductive. Her interest in me seemed to go beyond just wanting to repay me for services rendered. She asked me lots of questions, from the general (where I grew up, why I decided to go into medicine, where I went to med school) to the personal (was I ever married, did I have kids). She didn't ask me the particulars about my divorce but she did inquire about my daughter, probably because they were in the same generational ballpark. She seemed impressed when I told her that Chrissie had followed in her daddy's footsteps, had gone into medicine (pulmonary specialist) and was doing her residency at Massachusetts General. "You must be very proud," she said.

She surprised me by revealing she had once been married. "For about five minutes," she joked. Barely twenty-one, she had tied the knot after a whirlwind romance. Then she separated less than a year later. "Because you love someone, or at least think you do," she said, "doesn't mean you can live with that person. We were both way too young."

"And now?" I asked after forking into my salmon. "I mean, I'd guess you have a boyfriend."

She laughed. "No, not at the moment. Not even—what's that cliché?—playing the field? Not even that." She paused to sip her beer. "But I'm open to prospects." She smiled devilishly.

"Guess it depends on the prospect, huh?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, if I met a quality guy, one with a good sense of humor, who's stable and good looking and takes good care of himself, I'd be interested. Sound like anyone you know?" She flashed a seductive, flirtatious look, the sort you'd see at a singles bar.

"Well, I don't know," I said. "Speaking of quality people, since I consider you one of them, I doubt you'd have much trouble finding someone compatible. I'd think you'd find plenty of fellows your age at the Factory commensurate with your standards."

She frowned. "I find most guys my age to be incredibly immature and self-centered." She took another sip of beer, then folded her arms on the table and looked me straight in the eye. Dropping her flirtatious pose, she said, "Kirk, I asked you to dinner out of gratitude. But there's another reason, an ulterior motive, a good ulterior motive. At least I hope you'll take it that way."

"I'm listening."

"Come on, don't play coy." I wasn't, at least not consciously. But neither did I take for granted that she might be interested in more than just friendship.

She took a deep breath. "Do I have to spell it out? " I shrugged. "Okay, then I will. You're a very attractive guy, Kirk, and not just for your age. You seem to have those qualities I heretofore mentioned. In short, you're a hot number, Doctor Harris." She exhaled. "There, I said it."

"I'm old enough to be your dad."

"So?"

"So? What would your own dad or mom say if they knew you were dating someone my age?"

"Honestly, they might have a problem with it at first. Then, after meeting you, I think they'd accept it." She picked up on my skepticism, said with raised eyebrows. "No, really. My parents have always been open minded, have always trusted me because I never gave them reasons not to. But what about you?"

"Me?"

"Yeah. I mean, if you don't find me desirable, than I'm wasting my breath."

"Now look who's playing coy." She blushed. "Look, I find you highly desirable, Ronnie. But..." Other than the age thing, I could find no reason not to go along. I shook my head and took a gulp of beer.

"But what?"

I took her hand. "Ronnie, you're the kind of young lady that makes me wish I was fifteen years younger, that makes me feel like Faust lamenting his advanced age, yearning for his lost youth."

She squeezed my hand and smiled. "And if old Mephistopheles came calling, would you sell your soul in exchange for your youth?"

I looked at her in amazement. "You know the Faust legend? I didn't think they taught that in schools today."

"They did at Bryn Mawr, the high school I attended."

"I'm sitting here with a preppy?"

"Yes, but one without the attitude." We both laughed.

Briefly, we dropped the subject about us dating, and talked on about other things for the duration of the meal. Ronnie made good on her invite, refusing to let me pay for anything, including the tip. "Let me know how you're doing with that leg," I said after we left Applebee's.

By that time, I decided to bury enough of my reservations about the disparity in our ages and surrender to my feelings. We embraced and kissed on the parking lot. "If you're as good a doctor as you are a kisser, than I'm in good hands," she said. She was no slouch in that department herself. Her lips were soft and warm, her affection evident in the way she snuggled against me, oblivious to the heavy traffic whizzing by. We exchanged cell numbers, made tentative plans.

Days later, I called her, told it was my turn to treat for dinner. It was a warm, Indian summer October evening, perfect for a night out, dinner and then a stroll by the Inner Harbor. We ate at a Greek restaurant, then held hands strolling along the well-lit promenade, mingling with tourists who, like us, knew that late autumn's cold, biting winds coming off the water would soon end the luxury of doing this. And wouldn't you know, I ran into Stephen McCormick, an old college frat buddy and his wife. It's a wonder we recognized each other because we hadn't been in touch since graduation. We shook hands and back-slapped and before I could introduce Ronnie, he said, "Your daughter?"

Over my initial stammering, Ronnie cut in. "Actually, I'm his trophy wife with an impacted femoral nerve in my iliacus muscle."

After initially giving us weird looks, they started to laugh, and then I did also.

"She's inherited your offbeat sense of humor, Kirk," Stephen said.

"Right, right, she has," I said, looking at Ronnie who was doubled over in hysterics.

Once we parted company, Ronnie and I resumed our stroll along the promenade, laughing and holding hands. It was then that I was beginning to grasp that our generational gap paled in comparison to what we appeared to have in common—a sense of the absurd, finding humor in potentially awkward/embarrassing situations. Our shared eclectic tastes in music, from Mozart and REM, to the Rolling Stones and Taylor Swift, didn't hurt either. The age barrier, more a mental barrier of my own making, dropped away like a stage curtain. It's not that I felt any younger; it's that she made me see that our relative ages took a backseat to what was more important.

"I had a terrific time," she said when I dropped her off at her door. She lived in a cute Cape Cod style house in the burbs. "My starter home," she said. "The type of home I would have shared with my erstwhile other half had things worked out. Come in, I'll give you a tour."

It had two bedrooms, one and half baths and was nicely furnished. I liked the decorative wallpaper in the kitchen, swirls of sunflowers over a white background. "Put it up myself," she said proudly. She used one bedroom for a home office, the other for sleeping and TV watching on the twenty-two inch flat screen on her dresser. A pink bedspread and stuffed animals covered her double-sized bed, equipped with a headboard.