I see The Groper on Thursdays. He has a very, very keen eye for postural and structural alignment, he's a certified physical therapist, a personal trainer and he is my friend, Patty's, little brother.
I hired him to help fix my back, the idea being if I can become stronger and strengthen my hips/lower back, maybe it won't go out when my pupils dilate.
It had gone out earlier in the week for doing something like - oh - I dunno - breathing.
He watched me walk down the hall of the gym.
"Yeah - you are propelling a lot more with your left leg. C'mere. Lay on the floor... now just relax"
And he began pressing on my pubic bone. Right on my naughty bits. Just relax - yeah. Right.
"Hmmm - you are higher on one side."
He pulls my feet up next to me bum so my knees are bent, grabs my knees and spreads my legs as wide as they will go. I fervently hoped my sweats didn't have holes in the crotch...
I thought I was going to rip in half. Good Lord.
I was lying on the floor and he is down low pressing my knees WIDE open, sort of bouncing above me and I thought, "wow - if anyone should walk by the gym window right now, it is going to look like he is totally nailing me...."
Once that "fun" little episode of pain and groping was over, we worked on various exercises to show just how weak, uncoordinated and puny I am. When I was done - sweating and panting like a wildebeest giving birth - he pulls up my shirt up to expose my belly and ribs to the wall of gym mirrors.
"See? The work we are doing is helping the set of your rib cage. Can you see that?"
DO. NOT. EVER. and when I say ever, I mean EVER. DO. THAT. AGAIN.
Listen, Groper, I have mirrors at home. If I wanted to see that mess of my pasty, white, soft dough-like belly I would look at it. At home. Alone. In the dark.