Goals in Life

To snap out of my " I am now just flotsam on the sea of life with no paddle" mood, I changed my brand of coffee to the sort that would even curl the chest hairs of a Turkish bazaar carpet salesman.

After my cup of liquid tarmac, my paddle appeared , I got up and booked the flights to Los Angeles, turns out Singapore Airlines has scrapped all economy direct flights to LA the whole plane nose to tail is all business class, so much for the global down turn. I even booked the Disney hotel, does seem like a strange choice of accommodation, it would be the last place on earth someone with a brain tumour and associated migraines wants to be, but hanging out in mickey home turf is more too keep our toddler occupied while grown ups deal with men in white coats, sharp scalpels and big invoices.

There is no way I am going to operate on myself with a shaving mirror and a pair of knitting needles, so I accept it is still all out of my hands, but if I am going to go for surgery I can at least get fit, ask yourself this: who has a better chance of surviving major surgery, a 300 pound junk food fueled couch potato or a starving Marvin marathon runner? OK, the Chippendale talent scout will not be knocking on my door in 2 months time, but I have a target and a goal.

Things did not get off to a good start, every meal time I ordered the heart stopping Vindaloos, followed by the local Knickerbocker glory, and a side order of slow death in a bun. Theory being as one of the complication of the surgery is the loss of taste, this will be last time I may ever taste such culinary delights so may as well splurge out .

The surgeons will take a big chunk of bone and meat out from my head and chuck it in the green recycle bin. Just as you would use newspaper to protect your rare china in a box, to stop my grey gel from rattling around my head, the men in matching green shower caps will use a block of lard from my tummy. Being knighted Sir Cumference has its advantages, it really is in my case, you are what you eat. I just assume those six pack folks out there with no spare tire will have to use the fat off their bum cheeks, at least when you call them butt head they will have no choice but to agree with you.

I always thought the men in gyms are all genitalia challenged, they are pedaling furiously on bikes which mock them, mimicking their lives by also going nowhere. Take good look at the word endo"mor"phine, and you will know what I mean.

The wife cottoned onto my "not towing the line" health attitude, and taking a page form our communist cousins up north, she hired a Miss Whiplash to help with my re-education through corrective training.

There I was at the gym today in brand new shoes, and don't get me started on shoes, my last gym outing you only had the choice of Dunlop green stripe or socks and you carried a tube of white paste to make sure they looked clean. Took me three days to find a pair of "cross" trainers, that didn't look like it was designed by some ghetto gangster high on crack. There are shoes for every kind of sport and if you ask me they all look the same and ugly to boot, its all just some marketing ploy to get us to buy hundreds of plimsoles.

I can deal with the sort of training challenges normally thrown at chanting men in muddy polished black boots. Pull a train with my teeth? I will be up for it, lift a barbell with two bunny girls on ether end? bring it on. Shove my head in the loo, bury me alive, done it all before.

Miss. Whiplash is all new age incense burning Yogi type stuff, to me Yogi is brown, furry and has a suspect relationship with Boo Boo. My Lycra clad tormentor with the cattle prod keeps pointing out to me my "inner core" is weak and that does not mean its time to dig out the Viagra. One thwack of my belly and the rippling waves running up to my manboobs and back down again, also means my outer core is not so strong either.

Its quite amazing she twists me into all these positions where I can see my butt without a mirror, then ask me to lift a arm or leg by a few centimeters, no amount of hernia inducing straining can I do it. After 10 minutes I was begging Whiplash to untangle me or I will embarrass myself in my new and very stretched gym shorts.

The SAS should all grow long beards, wear thongs and have a go at this, the next time they go into battle, they just have to assume the position and the enemy will leg it when they see what they are dealing with.

For a long time Yoga to me was for nonces and women with a spandex fetish only there to meet like minded ladies in comfortable sandals. Now putting string in one nostril and pulling it out the other has my new found respect. I have to confess, I was in the yoga section of the local book shop I know its bit like admitting to wearing ladies underwear. I went to the last page of Inner core monthly, and there was a great after dinner party trick to impress the in-laws, the ultimate test of yogimanship, you have to squat on a bowl of warm salty water and suck it up your own bum.

I have found a new goal in life.