I am a dirty, dirty, old lady.
We swim at the Beaver Creek YMCA; well, Spouse Thingy swims, I walk in the water (sometimes running… yes, be impressed) for about an hour. They have an awesome pool—hell, the entire facility is very nice, nice enough that we drive there instead of the closer Fairborn Y—and if we time it right, we don’t even have to share a lane.
If we don’t time it right, the swim team is there practicing. They make me feel old, managing three or four laps for every one of mine.
We got there early today, figuring we could get done before they started practice. Some of them show up early, but if there are people using the lanes, they stand around and wait, or walk around and stretch, eyeing the lanes like vultures.
While walking my lane today, I looked up… there were these very nice man-type legs at the end of the lane, so of course I kept looking. Hard quads, a killer six pack, verrah, verrah nice pecs.
Then I got to his face.
My God, Mr. Universe was about sixteen years old.
He was there for swim team practice. Holy crap, I’m old enough to be his mother.
I will never, ever again ogle anyone at the Y.
Well, not and admit it, anyway.