After thinking about it for months, I finally checked out my apartment complex’s workout facilities tonight. This is my first step toward working out again. Sniff, then jump.

It didn’t smell all that good, but I didn’t expect the room to smell like Mr. Clean. Still, it would have been nice. There’s only one elliptical machine (my favorite huff-and-puff contraption), but there are two treadmills, neither of which I care to get on since I walk to and from work. And forget jogging; history has already proven that I won’t run unless I’m being chased by a devil’s imp, a tornado or a bee.

That leaves the stationary bike and a set of loose dumbbells that I have little idea how to use because I prefer Nautilus machines to tone my muscles. Oh, wait. There are two of those big Swiss ball things, but they require a certain amount of coordination that I’ve never, er, had. Great Googly-Moogly, please help me hold on to my dignity if a cute (straight) male resident comes in to work out while I’m struggling to keep afloat on one of those balls.

I’ve got a ton of sports bras, bike rider shorts, and yoga-type workout outfits that I refuse to wear because I’m no longer in shape. Yet here I am in Los Angeles, California, in one of the most health-conscious places around, in a city mainly populated by girls who weigh less than 120 pounds, and men whose bodies routinely make me drool. A fitness club is the place to be seen … and, well, it seems sacrilegious to think that I’m going to work out in bulky sweats and a t-shirt. Hmm, maybe I’ll wear my sunglasses.