A brief and wonderous description of how chocolate cake turned into Mr. Pool boy turned into working out

I'm going to become a body-builder. You know, one of those beefy women who can grow muscle as fast as she grows facial hair?

Gross.

But really. I've been working out every single day for the past two weeks (and no, M, this is not simply a phase). I woke up two Sunday's ago and decided that it's time to get myself in shape, so as not to embarrass myself in front of fit students while trying to crawl up hills and stairs (of which we do not lack on this campus).

Right. So, I start off at home going to the YMCA (where my family has a familyplan something or other membership). I bring Moni with me and pretend I'm not out of breath as I master the treadmill on manual settings. Then I move onto 'hill', and kill some serious calories. Like, a hundred calories. I think it's a good start.

Then, it's off to the bike. At this point (what, day 3 of the YMCA maybe?), Tyler starts meeting me at the gym. I pedal my way to oblivion, up the rockies and down along the ocean floors (because, clearly, my legs feel like jell-o, so the only explanation is that I must be pedaling under water). We pretend to like being at the gym, and we talk about Harry Potter (Book one, I've just started!) and about chocolate cake and basking in the sun and visiting Italy and eating a million and one pizzas from Naples and Venice and meeting beautiful men....or maybe we weren't talking about any of that. Exercising, I've learned, causes tantalizing hallucinations, all of which portray me eating copious amounts of chocolate cake...

So then there are the machines. THE MACHINES. Right. I start out by sitting on them all, feeling them out, getting a sense of where, exactly, I need to put my legs and arms and how in the world do I use this thing? Oh yes. There are instructions. It says that I'm going to be working some muscles in my back, but my legs hurt, and then there's the pain in my abdominals that keeps shooting, or maybe I'm just hungry? I can't tell anymore. Is Tyler still talking about Harry Potter?

Right. So that was last week. This week, I arrive to campus and immediately want to work-out, because, you know, I'm in the mode. Of working out, that is. So Maya and I walk briskly to the gym on Monday. The gym on campus is lacking only room to move. There are girls in tank tops and shorts that look like they may be cutting off their circulation, although, I can't be certain. Maybe all the blood from their legs rushes to their head and they see themselves eating chocolate cake, too?

The guys are beautiful at the gym on campus. Okay. See, you can't tell if they are socially awkward or not because no one talks - they all squint their eyes in UTTER PAIN and beads of sweat form on their foreheads, and everyone looks beautiful when they are hot and sweaty and clearly in pain. So, I try to mimic their excruciating gorgeous looks.

I squint at the guy next to me (who happens to be running hardcore on the treadmill) and I grab my water and plunge the liquid down my throat. I choke, squint involuntarily, and decide that I am not nearly as sexy as all of these people while working out. And then...Mr. Pool Boy comes out in a speedo. Did I mention that all of the treadmills face our swimming pool? I immediately collect myself, stop choking and hacking, and am mesmerized. These people in the gym are not beautiful. But that boy in the speedo down there? Mmmmmm. This is what? Day 8 or 9 of my routine? I am no longer thinking about chocolate cake.

So, I decide the next day that I do not like the gym on campus. It's crowded and crowded and crowded and crowded. And Mr. Pool Boy is probably a freshman.

Maya and I, in turn, discover Planet Fitness two days later. The Judgment-Free Zone, it's called. I. Love. It. Faithfully, I've driven myself to this gym every day now and am an official member of a gym with a thousand and one treadmills (or maybe 30?) and everything is open all of the time and no longer am I fantasizing about chocolate cake or Mr. Pool Boy, but rather...going to the gym. I know, boring, boring, boring, but I had to set my sights somewhere virtuous, and this takes the cake (no pun intended).

Nevermind that my body is battered and sore and I can barely turn to look at someone with wanting a full body massage, but it's going to be worth it. It is worth it. Mmmmmmmm.