A few months ago, I turned forty.
I wasn’t especially bothered by the milestone. There was no spectacular midlife crisis/meltdown, save for a resolution to go to the gym more. I even signed up for an intensive 30 day series of workouts with an instructor. I’ve been meaning to write about it for ages. I had in mind a vaguely humorous piece about male vanity, gym equipment as instruments of torture, and so forth.
Then I saw this. And thought I would save myself the bother of writing the piece – and save you, dear reader, the trouble of reading it. That old cliche about a picture speaking a thousand words? Totally true.