My wife and I go for daily walks in the park.  Walking for me 
is a necessary part of the therapy for the arthritis I have in my 
back.  For both of us it helps combat the spreading of middle age.  
In fair weather there are many joggers who pass us by with vigor 
and with music in their headphones.  I do not envy them too much, 
for over the years these walks have become a special time for my 
wife and I to talk and get to know each other.  We have relaxed, 
uninterrupted conversations; occasionally, a mild debate.  After 
thousands of these pleasant hours I am amazed that there is still 
so much to be discussed, so much to be learned from one another.
     Walking one sunny day, I realized that while I was talking to 
my wife I rarely was looking at her.  Instead, my eyes were 
focused on the young, shapely girls who were jogging by in their 
colorful, crowded outfits.  I wondered if she noticed what I had 
been looking at.  So I began to watch what my wife watched.  She, 
too, focused on the young girls.  Then she noticed that I was 
watching her.  "Sizing up the competition," she told me.  I felt 
foolish.  I began to look at the flowers, the birds, the 
squirrels, a Frisbee-chasing dog -- anything, other than the 
girls.  Later, when I glanced at my wife, I saw laughter in her 
eyes.