Let me try to explain. You might want to put down the bowl of leftover trifle you are having for breakfast - we've all done it - and concentrate.
Like most families Mrs P and I welcome our far flung brood home for the festive season.
This year we are hosting No.1 Son and Boomerang Child, who has returned from a spell in the deep south with her partner, Soldier Boy. And it's great to see them.
Until the boys take their shirts off.
That's when my humiliation starts. And I get a slap in the face reminder of the fact I'm not as young as I used to be.
As keen readers of my ramblings (and Merry Christmas to all three of you by the way!) will be aware, No.1 Son is a keen exponent of the free diving art. This requires a finely honed body able to withstand the enormous pressure of the deep ocean.
He has succeeded in getting one and keeping it. If doctors ever put out their own calendar like the firefighters he'd be a shoe in.
It's the same with Soldier Boy.
As you'd expect in the military he's in a constant state of readiness should the balloon go up and we need protecting. From what I've seen of his frame I think I'd just send him into battle. And maybe a chef. He eats like a horse.
Obviously all that muscle needs adequate fuel.
In bygone days both boys would likely have been effective gladiators, getting high on the brutal training and sword play.
Anyway. You get the picture. Two fit, athletic, muscular, good looking young men.
Shirts off if it's hot. Shirts off to head to the shower. Shirts off because the day ends in a Y etc etc.
Then there's me.
Obviously I used to be like them (ahem). All of us who remember flared trousers and platform shoes did didn't we? At least that's our story and we're sticking to it.
These days obviously things are a bit saggier. Ab is more flab and muscle is more, well, a bit more flab too.
But at least we're happy and content (albeit with disappearing hair) in the knowledge our loved ones love us just as we are and are not just interested in the body beautiful.
Or so I thought.
While trolling through the multitude of Christmassy type stuff that came across my desk this week I found a picture of a team of surf lifeguards. Among their number was a skinny, pasty, sickly looking individual who, without being too unkind, did not exactly fit the image.
Mrs P concurred and suggested if she was to be in need of rescue she'd rather it be by some "muscular, fit, good-looking hunk".
Personally I would've thought if you were to be plucked from the waves the top qualification for your rescuer would be an A-plus in swimming but Mrs P seemed to have overlooked that.
Using her grading scale I happily suggested should I need rescuing I'd like someone like a Baywatch babe, Pamela Anderson perhaps, to do the deed.
Obviously I got the glance which screamed "pervert!" and elected not to pursue the discussion.
So. Back to my exhausting exertions this morning. All part of my plan to at least look a bit more competitive in the body stakes.
I might have left it too late I know.
And if I eat a bit too much over the next few days any muscular gains I might have made will be literally covered over by the wide variety of culinary delights Mrs P has prepared.
And I might have to sit there in my comfy chair patting my big belly as the boys strut their stuff in front of me.
I know their ribbing is all good natured fun.
I'm sure they'll feel the same when they read this last sentence.
The pen is mightier than the sword.
Kevin Page has been a journalist for 34 years. He hasn't made enough money to retire after writing about serious topics for years so he's giving humour a shot instead.
