The World According To Gym

For breakfast this morning, it was decided that I would deposit and collect my beloved at her weekly women's health class. The hours pass quickly as I make my way towards the majestic marble pillars of 'Womens Health World'. I have never flirted with male yoga, my maleness always protruded, however carefully packed, through my extra layers of cup. I enjoyed running for a few years until I banged my arthritic knee on a cement mixer and consequently dislodged any further desire to travel faster than my own comfortable car. I developed arms with impressive veins that popped in all the right places until my niece asked me if I was in fact Magilla the Gorilla. Further tension loomed when I discovered that increased upper body development could result in ones gentleman sausage losing its girth. I limit myself these days to lifting nothing heavier than a Glaswegian pub landlords heart.

I hover just inside the door that clearly states it is an exit only. The movement of my shoulders alone causes the automatic door to swoooosh and then open and close, open, then close, open... It amuses me for nearly a full moment before I tire of such a childish game and the large woman wearing a medium sized uniform gives me a look as though I have just urinated on the grey corduroy carpet. Perhaps her supervisor has been leaving cryptic notes on her locker door about peculiar stains on the hallway carpets of late. I begin to wonder about the symbolism surrounding the stigma of urine stains and Rorschach tests. I can't decide whether I am an axe murderer or a complex dentist with a smoking beagle fixation. It's hard to say by just looking at the dotted line above what appears to be a map of Croatia. Perhaps if I did urinate discreetly a few centimetres along the top it could actually be a Masonic symbol.


Through the glass viewing window I watch as a rather rotund woman balances herself on some sort of medicine ball. In each hand she has a pair of small silver weights which I estimate to weigh no more than a post-it note. The pink ones, not the insipid yellow ones that remind me of an old Rottweilers teeth. By the look of her double chins I can only assume that she is more accustomed to lifting meat pies to her face than mere silver trinkets. To her side is a paper cup full of what could only be a small gallon of fizzy pop. Diet of course. I could be mistaken, but I could swear she is giving me the eye. Swoooosh, goes the door as I retreat into the safety of the pee stained foyer. Fluuump goes the medicine ball as it throws the cockroach-like creature onto its back. My admirer is replaced by another human replica of a wheelbarrow full of blancmange as the fitness instructor barks and the large woman falters as she peaks the top of the robust medicine ball.

The medium sized uniform to my left has positioned herself adjacent to me through the other side of the automatic door. Her whiskery lips pucker and blow out an inordinate amount of breath as she struggles to persuade her wrinkled shirt back into the overburdened trousers. I am fascinated, but I dare not make a comment in case she mistakes it for romantic interest on my part. I begin to fantasise about how many doughnuts it would take to fill all three of the women immediately in my view. It takes me no more than a minute to decide that the answer to the equation is more than likely unfathomable. Instead I marvel at the way the light through the swooooshing door creates a definitive wave of rainbow colours on the exposed flesh that has begun to glisten on the lower belly of the beached cockroach slurping glucose before me. That ball has seen better days. I am certain I can detect the faint odour of female broken wind.

A new puzzle has befallen me. Trawling through my daily bathroom ritual I try to decipher what density of blade would have to have been scraped down the area between the cockroach's navel and her appendix scar. If I turn my head slightly at an angle I try to reason that it is either dirt or a very lopsided Brazilian that keeps peeking at me from over the top of some very resilient spandex. I try not to think about the probability that it could well be a masochistic vajazzle. For the sake of morality I try to return my thoughts back to the urinary map of Croatia. Swoooosh, the door to the alien craft opens and my friend the uniform steps through and begins to speak to me. It is a moment or two before I realise I have strayed into the club members viewing area only. I nod my head with a cursory final glance at Croatia and step back the few centimetres into the non members section.

It is too late however. The uniform has rearranged itself in a quivering awkwardness beside me and clearly feels that her moment of power has instigated, at the very least, a response in answer to her comment. For the life of me I cannot recall her question. Her withering gaze tells me that between her upper torso and her tattoos, it could well have been connected with penis envy. My own penis is currently struggling to hide itself away behind its two closest companions in case of attack. There are links between my sexual libido and the larger lesbian, but I am unable to categorise a section which teeters between bestiality and a Greek wrestler. I sense she is not a soulful woman. I doubt she has ever purchased a Beatles album. In her eyes I merely pulsate a disgusting bile from my groin shakra. I do what every red blooded male does when confronted with what we call in Glasgow 'the gargoyle come on'. I whistle a happy tuneless tune as I wander gingerly away. Perhaps I'll wait in the car next time.


Chefs Healthy Salad

8 ounces thin asparagus, stem ends snapped off, cut into 2-inch pieces 

1/2 pound sugar snap peas, stemmed 

8 ounces snow peas, stemmed 

2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

1 tablespoon almond oil, or olive oil

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper

10 chopped scallions

12 ounces boneless, skinless chicken breasts, trimmed

2 teaspoons sesame oil

1 teaspoon salt-free lemon-pepper seasoning

4 whole strawberries, for garnish