So the other day Colette and I were standing in line. Where the line was and what it was for is irrelevant, really. If you want, just for fun, you can pretend we were in line to buy giant Sinbad-style swords to be used for waging war on the children.

It was a rather slow-moving line, and rather long, so we knew we were going to be in it for a while. We did what anyone else would do while standing in a long, slow-moving line: we looked for the weird people in the line so we could talk about them. It turned out there really weren’t any, so we engaged in idle chit-chat.

Colette and I have been together for five years now, so we’ve already reached the point at which there’s nothing meaningful for us to talk about. The conversation therefore was filled with phrases like, “I think we need to buy more duct tape,” and “I might have to mow the lawn tomorrow” and “This morning I briefly contemplated feasting on the cat.” You get the idea.

Eventually Colette said something about how her legs were really sore from the workout her trainer had inflicted on her the previous day. This got the attention of the guy in front of us. He turned around and suggested that she try some stretches to help relieve the pain and asked if she was being good about stretching before and after her workouts.

Now, before I go any further, I should tell you a little about this guy. He looked like he was maybe in his late 50s or early 60s, and he had long gray hair that was pulled into a scraggly ponytail. He had the slightly unkempt look of a guy who didn’t put much stock in worrying about his appearance. He wasn’t a slob, but you could tell his cart always sailed right past the hair-gel section at the grocery store. He wore a denim jacket, a T-shirt that looked like one of the freebies people get for participating in some event or other, and a little too much ear hair. He appeared to be in the line by himself.

Normally I’m not a big fan of engaging total strangers in conversation. After all, there’s a reason for the “strange” in “strangers,” you know? Talking to strangers is a mixed bag at best. You don’t know if you’re going to get I Desperately Seek Any Form of Human Contact Guy, or I Have Sampled the Flavor of My Own Earwax and I Found it to Be Tangy Guy, or I’m Holding it Together Right Now Through a Sheer Force of Will Guy, or whatever. Of course, it’s also possible for strangers to be perfectly normal and even interesting, but I generally prefer to play it safe and simply not talk to anyone.

But see, this isn’t exactly a healthy approach. I tell myself that I really should be more open to meeting new people, because many people are actually quite delightful to know. So when this aging hippie dude turned around and started talking to us, I didn’t pretend to be deaf, or feign narcolepsy, or do any of the other tricks I do to get out of undesired conversations.

Instead, I dove right in with the fearlessness of a toddler in a room full of sharp-cornered coffee tables. “Her trainer always makes sure she does plenty of stretching,” I said. “But you’re right, it’s a good idea. I’m personally not very good about stretching, but that’s me.”

The guy sized me up. “What, you can’t touch the floor with your fingers?”

Um. OK, kind of a weird question. Not off to a good start. “Not without bending my knees, no.”

The guy grinned, then bent over and put his palms flat on the floor without bending his knees at all. Keep in mind, this guy looks like he could be my dad, and I’m 40. At this point, not only has he made me slightly uncomfortable, he’s also totally shamed me.

“Whoa,” I said. Really, there was no other appropriate response.

He straightened again. “How much can you squat?”

See, this is why I don’t talk to people. I don’t like using the word “squat” in conversations with people I just met. Plus, this guy managed to instantly identify the glaring weakness in my game. I am the classic 98-pound weakling, even if I do weigh over 200. I have kind of a complex about it. And this guy wanted to discuss it at length. He didn’t know it, but it was like offering to shake hands with a germophobe. “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t really do squats. But the last time I did a leg press on a machine, I probably did about 250.”

“I squat 300 pounds as a warmup,” he said with a grin. “I do that about 30 or 40 times, then I work my way up to 500. I used to do 600, but I’m getting a little old for that.”

Wow. I had no reason to believe he was telling the truth, but I believed it anyway. This guy didn’t really look like Jack Lalane with a ponytail. He looked more like Dennis Hopper with a ponytail. Which, of course, made the whole thing that much more mortifying. I hoped he didn’t ask how much I could bench-press.

“How much can you bench?” he asked.

Ugh. “On a good day, about 120,” I lied. On a good day, it’s more like 100. A few times.

He chuckled. “One time I wanted to see how many times I could bench 100 pounds. I got bored after 60 reps.”

I don’t think he was trying to put me down; he seemed to just genuinely like having an opportunity to talk about his achievements in weightlifting. I suppose I understood. I imagine not a lot of people ask others about their weightlifting prowess; people who are great in the gym have to be the ones to bring up the topic. This is why I am in terrible shape. Well, that, and I’m terribly lazy.

I’ll spare you the rest of the conversation, but basically it was more stuff about him being mighty and me being spindly. He also was kind enough to offer Colette a few more tips before we went back to just being people standing next to each other in line.

I wasn’t sure what to think about my foray into engaging a stranger in conversation. On the one hand, Colette had gotten some semi-useful tips about stretching techniques. On the other, the dude had touched the floor with his palms.

Really, there’s only one reasonable conclusion to be drawn from the entire encounter. And that is: I need to learn how to lie about feats of strength in the gym.

Bob Rybarczyk (brybarczyk@sbcglobal.net) writes stuff. He sometimes wishes he’d eaten more glue as a child. Look for his novel, “Acoustic Kitty,” at area Borders stores and online at Amazon. Coming soon: a collection of his favorite Fringe columns, which he still can’t figure out what to title.