There is a good reason why I don't go to the gym.
He is called the amateur bodybuilder.
Many would argue he is the best reason to go - all pecs and abs and biceps - what women wouldn't want to feel up that?
But let me reassure you basting a man in cooking spray is not the kinky thing it's made out to be.
In fact after having already slathered on several layers of chocolate-like goo, it's downright messy.
There he stands before you, like a shiny chocolate jelly baby on steroids, and all you can think about is "this must be what the Easter bunnies look like before they get their shiny foil wrappers".
Now when I say amateur, I don't mean him posing in front of the mirror at home in his undies making grunting sounds that would make a porn star blush. I mean amateur as in doing all of the above, on stage, in front of hundreds of people.
I have learnt there are four stages to understanding amateur bodybuilding.
Denial: Where you pretend like it's not happening and that the tiny posing trunks on the clothes line next to your G-string don't really exist but are an unfortunate washing machine malfunction much like the mystery of the disappearing socks.
Embarrassment: Where you go along to his competitions, sit in the back and refuse to make any sounds of encouragement as the strain on his face resembles what a cat might look like pushing out a beach ball.
Admiration/envy: Where you can appreciate his fine physique and the hours he spends looking at himself in the mirror and at the same time despise his remarkable lack of body fat.
Unequivocal support: Where you bite the bullet and throw yourself into the role of supportive, loving partner who must suppress the urge to laugh on several occasions.
It is this final stage that either makes or breaks a relationship.
It can hinge on several things but primarily, if you can overlook the enormous boost to his ego if he happens to actually place in an event, it comes down to cooking spray.
I wasn't joking about that. Most bodybuilders use baby oil or some other lubricant but a less messy alternative is to use cooking spray. There is less drip and you can get a more even coat.
Couple that with the layer upon layer of thick fake tan products of chocolate-like consistency and you have yourself a winning combination.
And a disturbing one.
It was at this point backstage one fateful event that I stopped, poised with a can of cooking spray, and really looked at what I was doing.
There was more cooking oil between my fingers than Ronald McDonald could squeeze from his arteries and the chocolate-goo that stained my nails looked like I had clawed my way out of Willie Wonka's secret stronghold.
Dirty and oily and surrounded by buff almost naked men I realised there were worse things in life.
I could have a gym membership.
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