The redhead at the gym

I’m at the gym, rolling back and forth, back and forth, back and forth on the abcoaster, trying to regain the six-pack I never had, when a cute redhead comes up and says, “You look great for a man your age.”

“Thanks,” I reply, sucking in my gut.

“Do you mind if I ask how old you are?”

“Sixty. Sixty-one in November.”

“Oh,” she says, looking confused. “I was thinking you’re my father’s age.”

“How old is he?” I ask.

“Seventy-four.”

En route home, I stop at CVS, buy a Halloween-sized bag of Butterfingers and eat all 17 mini bars before I get out of the parking lot.

Give me one reason why I shouldn’t have.