Spa Talk, 2.

I had done my YMCA workout for the day: twenty lengths in the outdoor pool (80°F) and 45 minutes of aquafit in the indoor pool (90°F). I wanted to return to the outdoor pool, but all lanes were occupied. Instead, I opted for the spas—a soothing cool-down or, more accurately, a heat-up, since they’re enticingly warm at 100°F.

One spa was occupied by six women and an elderly man about my age. Since the maximum capacity was seven, I turned to the other spa, where four men—likely in their sixties or older—were gathered. As I stepped into the water, one of them left, allowing me to take his spot against a water jet, soothing my aching back muscles.

J., a stocky man in his late fifties, remarked, "There was a time I couldn’t even walk from my car to the Y. After a hip operation and years of aquafit classes, I can at least move around. My other hip is still a problem, though—I’ll need to take care of that eventually. But for now, I can still work as a waiter, serving beer and other drinks at a sports bar."

"Work is behind me," said B., a man in his early seventies with a neatly trimmed white mustache and goatee. "I've been single for ten years, and I enjoy the peace at home. There’s a lot to be said for living alone—your time is your own, and you can think for yourself." He glanced at the women chatting in the other spa. "They never stop talking, even during class. One of the instructors has asked them repeatedly to minimize chatter so the class can hear her instructions, but her request is largely ignored."

I had noticed the incessant conversation during aquafit classes myself, but I figured social interaction was part of the experience—something to let unfold naturally.
P., who had remained quiet until now, noted the all-male makeup of our group and mentioned he was considering joining an all-male discussion group offered by the Y twice a month in the evenings. "What time does it start?" J. asked.

"Seven p.m.," P. replied.

"That wouldn’t work for me since I work evenings," J. said. "Maybe after I retire. But I still have a daughter in her freshman year of college. Her older sister is graduating this year, and my eldest has finished school and is working. I need another five years before I can retire comfortably and do the things I’ve always wanted."

"Working in the alcohol business is tough," J. continued. "I've thought about quitting more than once, but management kept me on."
"I’ve had my challenges with alcohol," said B., "but one day, I just quit cold turkey—just like that."

"Did you suffer withdrawal symptoms?" P. asked.

"Not really. Quitting just felt like the right thing at the time. I worked laying flooring my whole life, and after a long shift, we’d always have a cold one as a reward for our hard work. Now, I just order water with lime, and I feel good about it—I don’t miss the beer."

The conversation shifted to smoking. P. mentioned his brother, who smokes two packs a day and has no intention of quitting.
"I remember when cigarettes were a dollar a pack," J. said. "Now, they cost around ten dollars."

"At that price, a two-pack-a-day habit costs $600 a month," B. noted. "That’s a huge expense."

"I went cold turkey when I quit," said P. "No withdrawal symptoms."

"Same here," said B. "Though I used nicotine patches, which were pricey. My doctor advised cutting them in half, so they lasted twice as long. The habit was gone within weeks. Unwanted side effect: I gained twenty pounds.”

"At least the tobacco industry had to face consequences for intoxicating the public," B. added. "The same can’t be said for other industries. The U.S. does a terrible job of regulating food production. That’s the price of American freedom and unchecked capitalism. Nowhere else could companies get away with this. And of course, politicians who could fix it are funded by the industry, so nothing changes. Most people don’t even realize what’s happening—blame the education system. Critical thinking isn’t being developed."

J. nodded. "I always say, if you read a food label and there’s an ingredient you can’t pronounce, don’t eat it."

"Thank you for the conversation, gentlemen," J. said. "I’ve got to go home to some peace—and get some sleep before my shift."
I was ready to climb out of the spa as well, having contributed little to the twenty-minute exchange. As I stepped out, I quipped, "Who needs a men's discussion group? We've got one right here."

I wished them a good day and glanced back at the outdoor pool—the lanes were still full. Drying off, I donned my robe and headed for my car. The other two remained. My workout was done, and I was headed home.

MvR, May 21, 2025. ✍️