I never thought I'd be in this position, facing a dreadful woman who sold gym memberships. She was eyeing me up and down, making me feel very exposed. I could tell right away that she was one of those chicks who was intimidated by every other woman who crossed her path. She wasn't exactly the right candidate for a sales job. After her eyes surveyed my ass, she broke into her pitch:
"We have many facilities here, classes like yoga and kickboxing." We walked out of her office and I found myself surrounded with machines. The saleswoman began pointing out the different weight machines, like a low-class Price Is Right girl, explaining which muscles each machine worked. She stopped mid-sentence, and ran up to a big, muscular guy. She flirted with him like she hadn't had sex in a year or so, and asked me right in front of him, "Isn't he hot?" as he grinned, waiting for my response.

Her embarrassing display of desperation almost had me running for the front door. These were the types of people I took pride in making fun of. But I was on a quest to become healthier, and ever since I quit smoking two years ago, I felt out of breath after running up a flight of stairs.

When I was about 22 years old, I got some kicks by standing outside the big gym window on Lafayette Street, smoking cigarettes while staring down people running on treadmills inside. They would give me disgusted looks as they got more red-faced and sweaty. I would stand there until I was bored, or until I wanted to go to a bar for a drink.

I smoked and drank like I was invincible. But I guess everyone is invincible at that age. When I quit smoking, my life slowly began to change. Sure, I still liked to drink, but going to bars was no fun anymore, because I hated coming home, smelling like cigarettes. I began eating healthier. Instead of having steaks four nights a week, my red meat intake became nothing more that a treat once a month. I actually liked feeling better, and not waking up feeling like a truck ran over my head.

As I stared at Mr. and Mrs. Gym, I began thinking. Did I really want to take this step? I felt like once I crossed over, there would be no turning back. I looked through the glass office walls, at the sweaty men and women who were pumping away on some sort of contraptions. But then I remembered how easily I get out of breath, and handed over my credit card. I knew I'd never become one of those people. They listen to bad top 40 or dance stations on the radio and probably go to pick up joints for fun. That wasn't me.

That weekend, I went shopping for gym clothes. This was a whole new ballgame for me–workout clothes, sneakers, and sports bras. I always vowed that I wouldn't wear sneakers, and here I was, in a FootLocker, surrounded by guys dressed like referees. After five minutes, I walked out empty-handed. I may have needed sneakers, but I wasn't about to buy big ugly white Nikes for $100. I went to Sneaker World on Steinway Street in Queens. I thought, if I can't find anything in Sneaker World, I may as well give up. After annoying the salesman with my comments on all of his sneakers (These are ugly! People actually wear these?, I look like a Queens girl!) I finally settled on a pair of non-offensive dark blue and gray Sketchers. I bought the most hard-core sports bra I could find (I wasn't about to sacrifice perkiness in order to lose a few pounds), and some ugly stretchy pants.

The gym offered one free personal training lesson to new members. I met a trainer named Julian–they all seemed to have romance-novel names–and he sat me down. His T-shirt was poured over his bulbous chest and I had a feeling he couldn't put his arms down to his sides.

He looked me over.
"How much do you weigh?"
"I don't really know. I don't own a scale and I haven't been to the doctor's office in awhile."
Julian looked at me funny, like he'd never met anyone who wasn't weight-obsessed.
"Look, I don't want to become skinny, I kind of like my body the way it is. If I get a little toned, it'll be a plus. I don't want six-pack abs, or any muscles. I just don't want to be out of breath when I climb one flight of stairs anymore.
"Well, that's a refreshing attitude. At least you’re being realistic."
I looked at Julian. Did he just insult me? I wonder if he was offended that I had a life?! I also wondered if Julian was his real name. He seemed disinterested in my free lesson, and barely taught me how to use a few weight machines before he took off, looking like a gorilla as he walked away.

I began to go to the gym before work about three times a week. I liked going in the mornings because there were fewer people, and most of them were old. I quickly found out the socializing happened with the after-work crowd. After a few weeks, I realized I had more energy and I could actually eat more, which was always a plus. It turned out that most of the gym people weren't nearly as bad as the people who worked there and most people kept to themselves. Over time, I began to take only their free classes and never used any machines, so I never even had to speak to anyone.

My friends still make fun of me, but they'd never be able to outrun me when I snap.