Abdoabomination

Synchronicity is not in my glossary these days. Not only do I engage simultaneously in disparate things, my unconscious deeds seemed like that of a confounded parakeet shoved into wandering aimlessly in a Max Ernst canvass.

Incoherence is hysterical. Unfunny if it concerns yourself.

To illustrate how hilariously disjointed things are:

Wading through the unsorted junk littering the newly-moved-in flat I discovered among the stack of dusty boxes a forgotten ABSculptor. This nefarious instrument was abandoned in my apartment like Stork droppings by an irresponsible cousin. It has been with me for seven years and it’s only just now that I dredged up its elapsed existence.

I gave out a hearty, insane laugh upon unearthing the equipment of torment. Like the similarly torturous Nordic Rider Bike which I bought some nine years ago, both implements serve no practical purpose but double as unintended vacuum cleaners. They have been magnetizing dust to put a Dyson blushing. I fear both have developed independent lifestyles by now.

Not that I need the dang ABSculptor at all: my abdominal area has no extra ounce of unwanted flab. But I am warped, so after the hearty chuckle I said, why in hell not.

I stripped down to my whitey white undies, lied on my back in the parquet floor and eased my neck into position and started pulling and kicking. But before I did the mid-body flexes I flicked a button on the stereo controls and the School of Surrealism commenced:

How many pseudohealthconscious people out there do abdominal crunches to blares of Tears For Fears Greatest Hits?!! Hahaha.

And the odd thing was I didn’t notice I was doing abdominal bends and simulated mid-air bicycle kicks while Sowing The Seeds Of Love and Everybody Wants To Rule The World dilute the pungent air of the room (a hired help varnished the parquet yesterday and it hasn’t completely soaked in the wood surface, ergo the mummified smell, and here I am, shirtless and lying on the partially sticky surface. How deranged is that?)

I realized I am working out to illogical soundtrack somewhere between the chorus line of Woman In Chains and Everybody Wants To Rule The World.

So I flicked the remote again to switch the disc (my trusty 50+1 CD changer proves its merit once more).

Hillary Hahn’s Bach Concertos drenched the air. Just great: amplify the Salvador Dali moment! Too preoccupied by the splitting sensations in my stomach as I continued the crunches Daniel Hope’s Bach immediately followed Hillary’s. Which jumped into The Jayhawks Rainy Day Music, which jumped to Viktoria Mullova’s Bethooven-Mendelssohn’s Violin Concertos, Which jumped to Nelson Freire’s Chopin & Villa-Lobos, which jumped to Interpol’s Antics.

The music accompanying the impromptu abdominal work out will give an onlooker a Rene Magritte moment.

Not me.

I was too busy yelling obscenities in between gasps for air every time the blasted ABSculptor rips and shreds my stomach into kingdom come.