Abs of flab

I have started watching television after a long hiatus…Is it just me getting old or is TV getting really crappy nowadays? Apart from the ubiquitous soaps with unfaithful wives that jump into bed with the postman before you can say ‘infidelity’ and the amazingly cheesy ads in which people get unbelievably excited about pure water and clean teeth, I noticed that practically ALL the male models seem to have bulging biceps and six-pack abs. They really get my goat, these smug, fit b@stards...
S. thought I was just being childish and jealous and tried to placate me by noting that women actually prefer guys with a sense of humour - not necessarily those with good looks and with great physiques. Yeah, sure. When was the last time you heard a woman say something like, ‘Brad Pitt should stop flaunting his physique and start cracking jokes –THAT would be really sexy!’
So I started thinking about exercising.
After nearly dislocating a shoulder trying to climb a tree (trying to photograph a rather inaccessible nest) and eventually having the branch break beneath me, I concluded that mere thinking, unfortunately, would not suffice. I progressed therefore to actually joining a gymnasium. Since I already have a fairly prominent one pack ab, I figured it’s just a question of time and some anatomical rearrangement before I get a six-pack. I’m wrong.

Day 1
The alarm goes off…wonder when clockmakers and cell phone manufacturers will succeed in composing alarm tunes which don’t make you wake up wanting to kill someone. The instructor turns out to be this petite girl who sniggers audibly when she sees me struggling to bend in order to untie my shoelaces. Not a good start. I glare manfully at her and cow her into silence.
In retrospect, not a good idea. Lesson 1 : Never antagonize a person who's going to decide your fitness plan. The whole ordeal begins with some wooden-faced clown computing my Body Mass Index and it transpires that I'm hovering perilously close on the periphery of the 'dangerously overweight/obese' category. So I cycle for half an hour and proudly stagger off to the nearest chair where aforementioned petite one is waiting with an ominous smile. ‘Oh, that was just the warm-up’, she says casually and leads me to a machine that looks like it’s been designed for third-degree torture. It’s apparently called a rowing machine because you sit on it and practice rowing, looking like a complete moron. I try explaining to the half-pint that I can’t swim so there’s no point in practicing rowing because I never intend to get in a boat. She just smiles sweetly and says ‘Oh it’s not meant to improve your rowing skills…it’s one of the best cardiovascular exercises. If it’s proving too difficult you can always join the women in the other cardio-exercise room and practice jogging.’ This gal’s smarter than she looks. Muttering curses, I start rowing. Within a minute I can’t feel my arms – they seem to be dead weights attached to my shoulders. After about fifty more seconds of this torture I furtively look around, sneak off to the showers and collapse. Never realized cold water could be a sedative.

Day 2
The alarm goes off…I blearily locate the clock, switch off the alarm and get out of bed. I try washing my face and realize that I can’t raise my hands above waist level. For some time I stare at them in dumb incomprehension…and resort to washing my face by filling a bucket with water and then dunking my head in it. Wiping my face is relatively easy...the carpet has just been dry-cleaned. Completely refreshed and full of verve, I go back to bed.

Conclusion: The only way I'll be able to get six packs is this: