Double Dutch-Gyms

daniele eubanks

Before these glorious college years, my exercise portfolio was not ... traditional. Other than cheerleading conditioning, which consisted of lunge-walking through the football practice and push-ups when we dropped someone on her head, I'd never really "worked out."

Unless you count some Mousercise I tried at age five or MTV's "The Grind" workout video, which was decent preparation for school dances. Unfortunately, none of the boys had discovered this instructional gem, so we were subjected to the white-boy wiggle for several years.

Anyway, when I got to college it seemed that everybody on campus was running. (I just do not like running - it makes me feel disgusting.) So I figured I'd have to take up some other exercise regimen, which led me to the Student Recreation Center.

I was dazzled as I entered the bulge-busting behemoth. Row upon row of "Get in shape, girl!" possibilities greeted me, and the magazine selection was fantastic.

Thirty minutes later, I was ready to abandon my cause for good, as every muscle in my body screamed, "Retreat!"

It started when I plopped onto the biceps-curl machine and sweat oozed out from under me. The sweat wasn't mine, and the whole experience was very violating.

The violation continued as I ventured into the free weights area and tried some squats. I may as well have been swinging around a pole in a thong and stilettos, considering all the lusty glances that graced my backside.

There is nothing liberating about the free weights area. In fact, protocol over there is pretty strict, and I felt a little like Shannon Smith on her first day at the Citadel.

And then there was the grunting. Why do some guys feel the need to groan like porn stars when they lift weights? Straining oneself to the point where ruptured blood vessels are a distinct possibility can't be healthy.

But I stuck with it. I felt pretty good about the whole toning process when my boyfriend proposed a little progress assessment as he flipped through a fitness magazine.

"There's a test in here that checks how toned your butt is," he said. "You should try it." So of course I agreed to give it a shot - I'd been working it for months.

"See if you can hold a pencil between your cheek and your leg," he said. Wedging that sucker in there, I clenched hard and held it for a couple of seconds.

"There! I did it!" I exclaimed with glee.

"Uh, so it looks like you failed," he said. "If you can do that you have butt-type three, the `saggy backside'."

It seemed to me the whole testing process was a little tricky, but the failure was a big setback. It's taken me more than a year and a nasty breakup to get over it and make amends with the SRC.

Now I just glide away on my Precor and watch J-Lo shake her thing. It makes me feel better.

Daniele can be reached at daniele_e@hotmail.com.