"Let's Get Elliptical"

By Jerry Zezima

According to an old saying, which must have been said by somebody old, muscles have memory. I forget who said it because my muscles are soaking in milk of amnesia.

Still, I thought I was the oldest member of my gym until I met a guy who was born during the Roosevelt administration (Franklin, not Teddy) and won’t let my muscles forget it.

At almost 82, Atilla Gerpanur is a decade older than I am, but his muscles are in better shape because he belongs to two gyms, used to go to at least one of them every day and now goes five days a week.

I belong to one gym, have never gone every day and now go five days a month.

“You have to put in the time if you want to stay healthy,” said Atilla, who had just finished his rigorous routine of two and a half hours, including 35 minutes on a stationary bike, half an hour on a treadmill, one hour lifting weights and 25 minutes on an elliptical bike.

“If I put in that much time, I’d have to call 911,” I said after finishing my routine, which added up to a mere 15 minutes on a treadmill and 25 minutes on a stationary bike.

“You’re a baby,” Atilla said when I told him I’m 72. “And you look great. But you can do better than that.”

“What’s your secret?” I asked.

“I don’t drink or smoke,” he replied.

“That’s a little extreme,” I said.

“But,” added Atilla, “I like to eat. That’s why I come here.”

“Is your wife a member?” I wondered.

“No, she doesn’t go to the gym,” Atilla said, adding that his wife is 69.

“You robbed the cradle,” I noted. “My wife is my age, but she goes to the gym twice a day.”

“She’s showing you up,” said Atilla. “You have to get on the stick.”

“Is that next to the treadmill?” I said.

After Atilla left, probably to go to his second gym, I saw another senior member, Bob Smosky, who’s 80, lives in my neighborhood and admitted that he ran into the back of a bus one summer day while he was riding his bike.

“I heard about you from Arnie the mailman,” I told him.

“Yeah, that was me,” said Bob. “Sometimes I just don’t pay attention.”

“You can’t do that in here because the bikes are stationary,” I pointed out.

“And there are no buses,” said Bob, a retired schoolteacher who had just done half an hour on an elliptical bike. “It’s too cold to ride outside,” added Bob, who’s fit and trim. “That’s why I’m here.”

Another retired teacher, Joe D’Iorio, goes to the gym for a reason that’s close to his heart.

“I had triple bypass surgery last August,” he said. “After 12 weeks of cardio rehab, I started coming here. Now I go five times a week.”

Joe, 71, has a side gig that’s also good for the heart.

“I buy and sell wine,” he said.

“Red wine is over-the-counter heart medicine,” I said.

“Except you can’t drink it here,” said Joe, who told me his routine: “I do a five-minute warmup on a treadmill at 2.5 miles per hour and 1% elevation, then 15 minutes at 3.7 miles per hour and 3% elevation. After that, I ride an elliptical bike for 15 minutes at level 5. And I finish up with a five-minute cool-down.”

“I’m exhausted just listening to you,” I said.

“I also do tai chi for seniors,” said Joe. “I have a bad back.”

“How’d you get that?” I asked.

“Lifting cases of wine,” he said. “My chiropractor said seven ounces of red wine relaxes the muscles.”

“I’m going home for a glass right now,” I said. “It will give my muscles something to remember.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Color Me Beautiful"

By Jerry Zezima

Sometimes a boy just likes to feel pretty. That’s why two of my granddaughters recently gave me a beauty treatment at their very own spa and salon.

And I can count on the fingers of two hands how much it cost to be the envy of everyone at an evening gathering where my bright red nails made me the life of the party.

My day of geezer pulchritude began when the girls, cousins 9 and 6 years old, asked if they could paint my nails.

I knew they would do an excellent job because they had just painted their own nails, which made them feel good and look good. In fact, the name of their establishment is Feel Good, Look Good Spa and Salon.

It was founded at my house by the 9-year-old and her sister, 12. But we were at the 6-year-old’s house, where the cousins had set up shop.

“We’re going to make you beautiful, Poppie,” the younger one promised.

Hoping the girls could accomplish the impossible, I eagerly agreed.

“You have to pick a color,” the older one said.

My choices: red, pink and rainbow sparkles.

The younger girl had rainbow sparkles on her nails, so I chose that one.

“It wouldn’t look good on you,” she said.

“How about pink?” I wondered.

“Not that one, either,” said the older one, whose nails were shiny pink. “Red is your color.”

“Will it match my eyes?” I asked.

The girls rolled their eyes and got down to work.

The older one, who is right-handed, painted the nails on my right hand. The younger one, who is left-handed, painted the nails on my left hand.

Aside from a couple of smudges — one on my right thumb, the other on my left ring finger — I was, indeed, beautiful. Or at least my nails were.

Then came this announcement by the 9-year-old: “You owe us money.”

I was flabbergasted.

“A legitimate business announces a price before a service is rendered,” I said. “Besides, don’t I get a family discount?”

“No,” said the 9-year-old, a born entrepreneur.

The 6-year-old said I should pay five cents a nail. Her older brother, who is 8, said 25 cents. His younger brother, the 6-year-old’s twin, just laughed. So did my 12-year-old granddaughter.

The 9-year-old set the rate at a dollar a nail. That meant I owed the girls $10.

My younger daughter, the older girl’s mother, helpfully pointed out that I should also pay a 20-percent tip.

Total cost: $12.

“Would you take a credit card?” I asked.

“No!” the younger girl responded. “We’re 6 and 9. We don’t have a bank account.”

I didn’t have a pair of fives, one for each girl, so I asked my 8-year-old grandson, who has a piggy bank, if he could break a 10.

“I’m not giving you money,” he stated flatly. When I explained, he said, “Now I get it.”

He opened the bank, which has a combination lock, and peeled off 10 ones. I gave him the sawbuck. Then I paid the girls.

“Ten bucks is a good price for a manicure,” said the boy’s mother, who’s also my older daughter.

“Plus tip,” added my younger daughter.

That night at the party, which was attended by adults and kids, I got raves for my red nails.

“You’re very stylish,” said one woman. “I wish my nails looked that good.”

Another woman said, “My daughter painted my nails blue, but they didn’t come out too well. Yours are better.”

Even the guys were impressed.

“I don’t know if I would do that,” one of them said.

Just then, my granddaughters came by and, in unison, chirped, “Nice nails, Poppie!”

“Thanks,” I replied, holding them up for all to see. “Being beautiful is worth the price.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Mission: Implausible"

By Jerry Zezima

TOP SECRET

To: Tom Cruise

From: Jerry Zezima

Re: “Mission: Implausible”

Dear Mr. Cruise:

I am a dashing, heroic and admittedly aging spy cleverly disguised as a syndicated newspaper columnist whose work is highly suspect. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to let me star in the next installment of your fabulously successful film series.

My qualifications are impeccable — or maybe, more fittingly, they’re impossible — because I recently went on a dangerous and sometimes embarrassing mission at the International Spy Museum in Washington, D.C.

I can’t say I sneaked into the museum, which a professional spy would have done, but I did have a ticket, so they let me in. Accompanying me were my wife, our two daughters, one of our sons-in-law and our five grandchildren, all of whom, if my information is correct, were better spies than I was.

Nonetheless, I wasn’t captured by a foreign power and imprisoned in a dingy jail cell, only to escape using my wits, or at least half of them, and save the world from evil.

But I did have a good time.

Don’t tell anyone, as you are sworn to secrecy, but in order to begin my mission, I was given a new identity.

My name was Drew Smith. I was from Athens (Greece, not Georgia), my occupation was as an artist, despite the fact that I can’t even draw a good salary, and my code name was Rattler. The comparison to a poisonous snake was insulting, but I’ve been called worse.

Still, it was especially dangerous because I would be — you guessed it — unarmed.

I also, unofficially, gave myself the code name 0072, because that’s my age. I didn’t walk up to other visitors and identify myself by saying, “Zezima, Jerry Zezima,” but I did ask someone on staff if the museum served martinis — shaken, not stirred.

I’m surprised I wasn’t thrown out.

My adventure began when I went to the first of several touchscreens I would have to navigate and signed in as Rattler. Then I got these instructions:

“We believe a cybercriminal has their base of operations in Moscow. YOUR MISSION: Determine the location of their secret headquarters. Continue to your next Undercover Mission stop.”

At my next stop, I had to identify myself again (spies can never be too careful, I guess) and got these further instructions:

“You’ve received a secret message from headquarters. Assignment: Crack the coded message to figure out the next steps for your mission.”

It turned out that I wasn’t too smart — I was more like Maxwell Smart, the bumbling Agent 86 on the 1960s TV spy spoof “Get Smart” — so I needed help. Here’s what I got: “Ops cracked the message for you. Your mission is a go!”

I went to the Gadget Lab to design the right tool for the job. I picked a lock pick kit, which I’m glad I didn’t have to say five times fast.

“Good work!” it said on the screen.

From there I went to the Disguise Screen, where I chose a photo of myself with a trench coat and a fedora, and then to the Briefing Station to assume my cover on a Stealth Mission, which entailed crawling through an overhead vent while my grandchildren, giggling behind me, played Follow the Geezer.

I somehow made it through the Operational Zone in Moscow even though I blew most of the questions about security threats.

At the end, I got this message: “Intel received. Nice work, agent. This is the key piece of intel that we were looking for. We will take it from here.”

I had completed my mission. Now I am a certified secret agent.

Your assignment, Mr. Cruise, is to cast me in your next “Mission” movie. My new code name: Poppie. It’s what my grandchildren call me.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima