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.