We’re hot, but apparently not the way we used to be

A truck pulled up next to my car where I was stopped at a light at Mill Avenue and Broadway Road.

The driver of the truck leaned out of his window, smiling.

I looked at my friend Laura in the passenger seat, eyebrows raised. Maybe we still had it.

We weren’t looking our best. I mean, we were hot, but not as in we were looking good. Hot as in sweaty hot after our Monday night tap dance class.

Oh, we felt exhilarated after an hour and a half of tap dancing, our hearts thumping and legs pumping.

But we’d be sore the next day. When I got out of bed in the morning, my feet would ache. I could already feel the tug of a recent hamstring pull. Another of our tap-dancing friends was out for five weeks with a back injury.

Our bodies are having a hard time keeping up with us now.

Laura and I had been talking about that on the drive, how the changes in our bodies impacted how we felt after a workout and also the way we looked.

Graying hair. Crow’s feet. Hands like our mothers’.

Men didn’t seem to notice us as often. We could slip into the office, a bar, a party unnoticed. Guys certainly didn’t chase us down at stop lights.

We were talking about how that makes a feel, trying to decide if we cared all that much, when the truck pulled up beside us.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the man in the truck started. (That should have been a clue, when he said, “ma’am,” but I missed it.)

I tilted my head and smiled. “Oh,

haaaaaaay,” I crooned.

“I wanted to let you know your headlights are off.”

Oh.

“Thank you!” Laura and I chimed together. We busted out laughing when he drove away.

So maybe we don’t care all that much. That’s hot.