Not too long ago, my boys and I decided to sweat and pant at the correct environments.
Which, for Stanley the sex bunny, means activities outside of the bedroom.
And toilet cubicles, in some cases.
And for Carl the gym rabbit, it means taking him outside the four walls of a fitness centre.
Yesterday morning, the three of us found ourselves at the recently-opened Rail Corridor.
We and one-third of the Singapore population.
"What's with Singaporeans' obsession with nature and sports," Stanley grumbled, eyeing groups of sporty aunties with visors, hankies, and sunglasses. "They obviously look like they belong to a public dancing group in Tiananmen Square."
"Where are the hunks?" Carl formulated the underlying question found in Stanley's tone.
We had decided to do something as a group, that would be life changing.
We're past 40, and we need to get in shape. And the government will no longer throw us in jail if we gather in groups of five.
Carl is always in agreement to getting in shape, while Stanley just wants to ogle at those who're already in shape.
"It's hot here," Carl complained.
"And that shouldn't be an excuse for that thing to be shirtless," Stanley pointed with his eyes at a middle aged man running with bouncing man boobs and a pouch.
"I'm starting to think this is a wrong decision," Stanley pouted.
Carl the follower pouted alongside.
We had entered the Rail Corridor via Upper Bukit Timah where the park goers' main concern was snapping photos while making peace signs with their fingers.
Carl looked bored, while Stanley looks like he wants to be bored into, but right now there are no prospective takers.
Resigned, Stanley said "maybe we should just turn back and eat prata."
A sweaty and heavyset Indian woman walking two of her dogs looked in our direction and smiled, jiggling her head.
"It's a sign," Carl exclaimed.
We looked to where he was pointing.
A group of people were posing for a wefie in front of an aged concrete slab that says "Bukit Timah Railway Station."
More importantly, the people in front of the sign were the highlight of the day. A mishmash of gay people of different sizes: From the beefy and chunky to the lean and sinewy.
"Now, we're talking," Stanley hummed seductively, suddenly revived.
"No. Now we're running," I inserted, knowing that we would have to start jogging at some point this lifetime.
Stanley looked forlornly at the group of homosexuals and parted ways with them and recalibrated his gaze at me with dagger eyes for breaking him and his potential sex partners.
"You happy now?"
It's been quite a while since we'd run together but just like riding a bike, we picked up pace in no time.
Stanley, who is an expert on "bike riding", was exceptional. His running gait was consistent, and breathing, uniform.
After all, Stanley and I had once been fit young things during national service where we met. And we were among the fiercest soldiers in the group.
Struggling to keep up was actually Carl, panting and wheezing, his face paler than a Fuchou fishball.
Stanley looked at Carl and rolled his eyes.
Carl is one of those who dedicates nearly all of his waking hours on self grooming and cultivating muscles by huffing and puffing at the gym.
Years of commitment had given him biceps the size of well-fed pythons, but his legs were pitifully neglected. His thighs and calves are so under worked that from afar, he looks like a walking chicken drumstick.
"Hey, haven't you been working out at the gym?! Why can't you catch up?" Stanley said impatiently to Carl who looked like he was going to collapse from stress.
We eventually slowed down so that our 400-year-old friend could catch up.
"What's the point of you going to the gym when you are so unfit," Stanley scolded.
Carl looked like he was struggling to come up with a retort, but thought it wiser to divert his remaining energy on prolonging his life on this earth.
Carl, for the lack of a better word, is a typical show dog.
The type where his paws are always neatly pruned, his fur fluffed up all the time like a respectable Indonesian tai tai, and his posture dignified at all times.
But when it comes to crunch time, the show dog wags its tail lovingly at the burglar who pats it on its head.
Many a times, we had asked Carl the incredible hulk for help. To make good use of his muscles to open a very tight jar.
Once, Stanley looked at a helpless Carl in disbelief when our macho friend struggled to open the jar of jam.
"Adam, next time, just pass it to me. My talented asshole might be able to open jars better than Carl's useless muscles."
Right now, Mr Muscle needs a drink.
"I think I can't run anymore. I have reached my limit," Carl said, squatting by the bushes, a visual sign that he has given up on life.
Stanley looked at his Apple watch.
"You've only run 700 metres, bitch."
And so instead of running, the three of us decided to take things slow and take a brisk walk instead.
By 11am -- two hours since we arrived at the Rail Corridor -- we were still trudging slowly, urbanisation nowhere in sight.
Stanley's mood was sour to the max.
First, no cute guys in sight.
Then, there are so many people who keep choking up the running track.
And worst, Stanley says the only thing that's burning is his blood and not his calories from all this slow, flower-gazing pace of walking.
But at least, Mr Universe 2021 had regained some colour to his face.
"I think this morning walk is doing my biceps some good," the dense one beamed. "They feel tighter now."
Stanley looked at Carl.
"Hunny, at our age, and the type of activities we'd been engaging in all our lives, there's really nothing tight about us."
With precise timing that can only be achieved by a witty director and a humorous God, two sporty aunties with visors, hankies and sunglasses in the opposite direction beamed at us and said "Good morning!"
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