While I entered the pool area of my gym, I passed the woman’s locker room door just as a short and thin young lady unexpectedly appeared with an absolutely … staggeringly-sized… rack.
Imagine Kate Moss if she was five foot one – and had bowling ball implants.
It was amazing she could even stand, much less move.
Unluckily, I had on rather thin boxer swim trunks and had to discreetly – like that was remotely possible – deflect Mr. Cowboy’s sudden appearance by forcefully grabbing him with both hands and frantically trying to wrestle him down.
And, clearly, Mr. Cowboy is getting a lot more exercise than my arms and is in a lot better shape than they are.
Now if we were at the beach, Mr. Cowboy would have been safely corralled, i.e., strapped down within an inch of his life - in his custom swim suit that keeps a tight rein on him and prevents those nasty whip lash injuries, injuries my Blue Cross claims adjustor never, ever wants to hear about again, much less cover.
My problem, though, was that while swimming at this particular gym, it was, alas, all too rare we needed to take any precautions against my better half’s far too natural urges, and so we had both gotten a bit lax.
However, upon reflection, I realized that Mr. Cowboy’s reaction to this violation of all known laws of nature and physics (as well as good taste) was actually somewhat lukewarm by his usual energetic standards and that’s why I escaped with just a forearm muscle pull and a small, if painful, tear in my groin.
But I then realized this was all a bit odd since while my brain can understand just how grotesque plastic surgery of this kind is, Mr. Cowboy never, ever exercises that kind of judgment.
So just as I was about to congratulate my little mare buster on his most welcome, if fully unexpected, maturity, I suddenly recalled the new drug my neurologist had given me the day before and its affect on Mr. Cowboy’s enthusiasm during his last outings of that morning and on the afternoon and the night prior; a temporary diminishment of his eagerness that was on occasion the case during his adjustment to new medications.
And so, tragically, it appears this supposed new maturity of Mr. Cowboy’s is only a cruel, bitter hoax of his and Mr. Cowboy will soon be the same horny, bone-headed 17-year-old he has always been.