I've recently started going to the gym and let me tell you, it's no walk in the park. The idea of going to the gym in the first place scares the living shit out of me. Who wants to go torture your body for an hour a day and not see immediate results? Who wants to walk in clean and leave looking like you've just taken a shower but smelling like you've just rolled around in a mountain of salt and assorted trash? Not me. Regardless, I've made the vow to start smelling like salt and trash more often. New year, new me?

One of the hardest parts about going to the gym is deciding what to wear. It's so unlike me to worry about what my clothes look like on my body, but for some reason this is a crucial component to gym going nowadays. Of course, I pull out the trusty high school basketball shorts, one of the million high school t-shirts I have laying around, my black mid-rise Nikes, and whatever sneakers I happen to have on already for the day. I give myself a quick up-down in the mirror and leave satisfied with my ensemble. I'll look like I've been doing this for years, right? WRONG.

The gym is an assortment of tight, black, how the heck did you squeeze your legs in those yoga pants mixed in with the occasional barely covers the butt shorts. The tops are an array of colors of the neon variety with printed cutesy "The Gym is my Happy Place" and "Sweat is my Make-up" sayings across the chest. I look around and I see a rainbow of oh no, but march on in anyway.

I used to run cross country in high school. Ok, I ran cross country my senior year only. OK, I was on team!! Regardless of how well I ran, at least I did, right? Any idiot can work a treadmill, so I head straight to the first one I see open up. The screen starts flashing and I can feel my knees already start to shake. The machine asks a series of, in my opinion, personal questions. What is your age? (Wouldn't you like to know?) How much do you weigh? (Don't even get me started.) Choose indicated speed. (What is "slow" in mph?) Choose level. (OK THIS IS GETTING RIDICULOUS!) I press the green, flashing button a million times and finally I get the stupid machine to start moving below my feet. I instantly regret not stretching first. I would jump off and stretch it out, but there's no way I have enough patience to answer the treadmill's pre-run survey again. About .1 miles into it you would have thought I'd been going for hours. I'm wheezing and gasping for breath, clutching my chest, thinking 'this is it, this is how it ends.' I jump off. I'm not dying on a treadmill in the school rec center. I refuse to go out like that.

I decide the next best place to get some cardio in is on one of the ten thousand elliptical machines. Honestly I've never used one of these machines before, so I watch a few of the girls in front of me and try to do as they do. As soon as I place my feet in the foot holders the elliptical starts asking the same freaking questions as the treadmill. I "flashing green button" through them as I continue to watch the girls in front of me. It seems to be pretty simple. Move your arms and legs in sync as if you were running. Unfortunately I was not blessed with the gift of hand-eye coordination. Even though the machine makes it almost impossible to make the wrong leg and arm movement, I've found a way.

Running on the track is my last hope for some cardio. I start moving around the track with surprising ease. My arms are pumping, my legs are burning with the sweet feeling of success, and if it would have been possible the wind would have been blowing my hair back in an ever so attractive fashion. I'm just about to congratulate myself on a job well done when I notice the 80 year old man has passed me more than once this lap around. That's it. Cardio is not for me.

Next I decide to work on my arms. I know how to use a bench press. Feeling rather brave I rack up the bar with 2.5 lb plates on either side. I'm really showing my arms who is boss today. I lay down with the bar under my chest, secure my hands shoulder width apart, and exhale as I remove the bar from the safety of it's holder. I extend my arms and lower them to just above my chest (1), I extend and lower them again (2) and again (3), and then it happens. Have you ever seen that episode of Spongebob where he wants to enter Larry the Lobster's strong man competition but can barely lift the stick with marshmallows on it? Well let's just say I was Spongebob surrounded by A LOT of Larry the Lobsters. My left arm quivers momentarily before my arms are perpendicular to the floor and I'm kicking myself for adding those heavy marshmallows. That's enough arms for today.

My next and final stop is the floor. (No, not because I died of exhaustion or of embarrassment.) I lay a mat down and lay my body on top of it. I contemplate my first abdominal exercise. I decide to start with a minute regular plank. No big deal, I distract myself with thoughts like 'should my butt be so high in the air?' and 'do you think they can see down my shorts?' 30 second planks on either side were next. A little bigger deal. As I'm putting all my weight on the poor, poor outsides of my arms I can't help but think that the timer on my phone is on minutes instead of seconds. Finally the buzzer sounds and I look up catch my breath. The girl to my right is on her hands and knees kicking her legs back one at a time. The girl to my left is laying on her back shimmying her arms back and forth like some kind of fish out of water. Finally! More people who have no idea what they're doing here. I lay back down and start doing crunches with the passion of a thousand burning suns. There's no way I won't have a six pack by the end of the night. 15 crunches later and it's time to turn in the towel.

As I walk out of the gym I pass all the machines I didn't have an opportunity to get my curious little paws on. Until next time weird stretching cage. Until next time dumbbells. Until next time stationary bike (I wonder if I could make it move if I peddle fast enough.) Until next time leg crushing machine. As I'm passing all these foreign contraptions I can't help but feel a twinge of excitement to make my way back to use them.

MORAL OF THE STORY: If I can, you can too. Get in there, smell like salt, and kick some serious butt.