After writing this, I now crave Doritos...

As many members of the blogging world seem to be doing lately, I am once again tackling the gym. Due to stress, exams, and overall laziness, the funk class venture trickled down the drain of things-I-really-don't-care-about pretty quickly, even though it was a lot of fun. The gym might be starting that class up again this summer, but I'm scared there will only be five or six people in it. It's a lot easier to gyrate around like an idiot when you can hide in a mass of seventy girls. So funk might be off the list. But, the godforsaken treadmill is still around. I hopped on that one all full of vim and vigor yesterday. Twenty-five minutes and 1.75 miles later, I fell off the back end and hoped no one would step on me while I tried to figure out if my lungs were still attached. But, I will not let the scale at the doctor's office win! I will be back this afternoon! Maybe! If there aren't too many people there! Because people, you have not known insecurity until you have been to a college gym. Not only can the girl next to you run a six-minute mile, she has a 4.0. See? She's studying biochemistry while she's got that machine cranked up to 7 on 4.5 incline. Jesus, some people need to get a life and discover Doritos and cable. And then you get the guys. You know, those guys. The ones with a 100 pound dumbbell in each hand, looking in the mirror to make sure that you see that they have these dumbbells in their hands. And look! They can lift them! Over and over and over! (You can almost here them going, "Hup, ho! Hup, ho," a la Family Guy.) And then they lean on your bicep machine and let you know the wrongness of your form. Hello? Do you see the spaghetti noodles I like to call my biceps? I'm glad I can grip the handles, let alone have proper form. And no, I don't want to meet you later for a protein shake. I have The Amazing Race and Doritos waiting for me at home. It's called having plans. You can't break those. And the best is the crazy religion and philosophy professors in the power yoga class. Holy mother, how the hell do they stick their toe there? And then hold themselves on one arm for 10 minutes. It is beyond me, I tell you.

So, I am off to do battle again. Wish me luck. And send ice. And whiskey. And Doritos!