Gym Stories (part 1)

I am old.  I know I am old because I have reached the stage where going to the gym is a case of slowing the natural decline in my physical condition rather than actually improving upon it.  I know I am old because my hip tells me when it is time to give the treadmill a rest rather than my lungs.  I know I am old because my pupils regularly point it out to me.

The gym I attend is in a town full of schools in which I have taught.  For this reason it is a rare session that doesn't involve bumping into at least one past pupil.  In my mind they are thinking, "Ah, this is how he keeps himself in such good shape"; but something in their eyes shows me that they are lumping me in with the rest of the oldies - the ones you see power walking in groups round shopping malls before going for a social cup of tea and a scone.  

You know when you look at an elderly couple who are holding hands?  You know that "awww" feeling you get at the idea that, at their age, they still make an effort... but that you don't really want to think about the details?  THAT's the look I see my pupils give me at the gym.  And that's how I know I am old.