Anything to lose weight.

Going to the gym is an experience unlike any other. I am constantly amazed at my very own gym experiences. I mean, picture it: You've got 15 middle aged women in sports bras and work out clothes crowded into a room surrounded by mirrors. We have loaded up our bars, have our dumbbells ready, and are standing at the edge of our mats looking at our own loathesome bodies in the mirror. We want a transformation and we are delighted that we will get to see it all happen before our very eyes.

The music begins. It is hip. We all believe that hip music must make us skinny. The instructor is a classic stereotype of the Italian New York mob boss wife. She has long curly brown hair that she does not put in a ponytail, even though it is dripping with sweat. The headset microphone is tucked around the back of her head and ears, so that when looking at her from the front, her hair perfectly frames her face, but when looking from the back, her hair is poofed up like a helmet. She has the longest and pinkest fake fingernails I have ever beheld. I do not understand how she grips her weights, but she does. I soon realize that neither hair nor nails nor the force of a mighty storm could keep this woman from her exercise.

We begin warm-up, following her every move. She is twice my age and looks twice better. I am sickened, but continue to glance at myself in the mirror, in hopes that my stomach will begin its transformation into a carbon copy of hers. I am squatting, and lunging, and sweating, and curling, and breathing, and sweating, and miserable. I keep looking at my bright red cheeks and frizzing hair and wonder when I will look toned and beautiful.

"Oh, you're really sweating," she says in a voice so similar to Fran Drescher from the Nanny that I think I might be on her sitcom. Is the studio audience laughing at me from behind the mirrors?

Throughout the class, I begin to notice that "Fran" is not completing each set. She keeps telling us to "Add more weight! You really wanna push ya-self!" I think I have a soulmate in the class who gave her "and what are you doing" eyes, because she then said, "I would do 'em with you, but I have to teach class all day." (I wish I could write her accent - nasal and jersey maybe.)

We are almost finished and she is asking us to do more glute work (glutes... as in butt) and I am dying. She looks at us and says, "Oh, isn't it awful?! Ah, it just burns!" and then matter-of-factly with a head nod, "It's awful."

We never reply, mainly because we cannot breathe. I am beginning to sweat through my white tee shirt and my legs are blotchy, but there is a beautiful woman behind me and she keeps pushing through each exercise and I wanna at least look like her so I press on. I always find someone in the class to compete with, otherwise I would have no motivation to go through this pain. But she is really beautiful, tall, lean, and blonde, and I remember thinking that I'm glad Jerrod isn't here, but I wish my brother was. How does that girl not sweat???

"Oh, look at you with the legs!"

This screech snaps me back to life as I realize that my teacher is standing right beside me. She is bending over for a closer inspection of my legs and I am tempted to tilt the barbell to one side so that the weight will fall off and knock her out. But alas, the weight clips. "Are you an athlete?" She does not wait for my reply. "No, no, a runna. You are definitely a runna. Will you look at this girls legs?" I answer that I never run and would not unless a stranger was chasing me. She says, "Then it's genetics." I picture the legs of my entire family and give a head shake. "You're new! And you don't play sports?" "Not right now," I answer through my gritted teeth, each squat becoming more difficult. "Can you believe she's not a runna and it's her first time back to the gym and she's got legs like these?"

The rest of the class is moaning in agony because she has gotten so caught up in my upper thighs and calves that she has forgotten to count us out of this exercise. The rest of the class does not care one bit about my legs, but would probably like to break them as their glory is causing all of us a lot of pain.

"Oh, oh, oh! I'm so sorry! Okay, break. Now add weight and let's do biceps."

The rest of the class goes fine. She tells us that intestines are 25 feet long and that "doctas" have to really pay attention to "wrap 'em all back up in there" after surgery. "Imagine a kink," she says to us in all seriousness.

I find myself thinking that 25 feet of intestine must weigh a lot. If I got an intestine reduction, how much more of Club Strength Class would I really need?