For the past couple of weeks I've been submitting myself to early morning torture sessions via Physical Therapy, due to a "frozen" shoulder. According to Hubby, my frigid heart has chilled my arm and if I would have just given him a little more lovin', it would have never happened. I think he's full of it because I really don't know how in the heck I originally hurt myself. I suspect it was some sort of random child chasin', chicken herdin' ordeal, but that's mystery I'll never solve. Needless to say, I'm in pain and it really hurts whenever I try to reach behind me or raise my arm past a certain point. Just the kind of thing you want to have happen when you have an out of control two year old.

My injury has been very entertaining for Hubby. He thinks it's hilarious because I have the worst time unhooking my bra at bedtime. I know, TMI. He sits there watching me, waiving his hand franticly in the air, trying to get my attention. I grimace in pain, struggling with the four pronged Cross Your Heart torture test all the while he’s yelling, "Pick me! Pick me! I'll unleash the beasts!" He begs and pleads as though he's a kindergartner asking to help the teacher pick up crayons. Each night he's shut down; either with "the look" or a couple of words of profanity. Poor guy.

Alright, back to the story…Because of my work schedule, I've had to choose early morning sessions with the Mistress of Muscle Pain (MUMP), a.k.a. Physical Therapist. She's actually a very nice gal and she's super gentle on my poor old body during our sessions. The sessions, while painful at times, have also enlightened me to new things. Something I've noticed over the past few visits is that I tend to be the youngest patient at these early morning times. Most of the patients or clients appear to be well into their 50's, 60's, 70's and by the looks of it, even 80's. Some are there for post-operative treatment while others are there to utilize the equipment and perhaps even take a dip in the love grotto (I’ll explain this in just a moment).

And this is where my story begins... People my age go may go to the bar, casino, or even the health club to meet new people and find relationships. Booty calls may happen, some dating occurs, and perhaps even the occasional marriage can develop from such happenings. However, I have learned the true place where the magic happens for the older folks; it's the physical therapy pool. Better yet, it's Fortuna's version of the Playboy Grotto.

During each visit, in between heavy blinks of pain and waves of nausea, I've witnessed numerous older folks giggling, smiling, and otherwise looking all too giddy for that time of morning. They shuffle one by one, into the warm and inviting, heavily chlorinated pool. From the torture chamber (exercise room) I can hear playful splashes, the occasional, "Oh Harold! You're so funny! Can you pretty please (I imagine there is some batting of the eyelashes) hand me that kickboard?" and a few, "You have great moves, Lucille (wink, wink).”

The flirty splashes, winks, eye batting, and lustful thoughts permeate from the love grotto like a scene from the movie, Cocoon. I smile to myself and then swallow down the vomit that has accumulated in the back of my throat. I’m just glad that swimming isn’t part of my treatment plan.

As I finish my session, some of the old ladies are wandering back out in their floral one piece sexy suits while the old men are sporting handsome swim trunks. They casually waive at one another, knowing that they’ll soon meet again for another sinful swimming session. It's actually kinda cute even though I do find it a little disturbing because grandparents are not meant to be romantic creatures. In fact, I know my grandparents only did the deed a few times - just count their children and you'll know exactly how many times that is.

Ok, ok, I 'm not a total prude and I do realize that Grannies and Grandpas should get their occasional groove on. That is, as long as it's done in a safe, non-hip or joint breaking manner. But maybe, just maybe, keep the naughty activity out of the place where my kids might take swim lessons. Eww. Yuck. Gross.

I'm going to keep this tidbit of information in the back of my mind - especially for when I begin wandering into my golden years and find myself looking for a senior citzen booty call. I'll be grabbin' my towel and flip flops, and headin' for the pool. I'll be on the lookout for my own merman.