Gym-bo-ree

So, I joined a gym. To some, that's akin to my saying "I like the Mets now" or "I am totally confident about my impending success." And, to answer your question in advance, no, they don't serve beer at the gym. Nor do they sell popcorn or show BBC comedies on DVD. I have decided that in order to be taken seriously, I have to stop looking like I eat a half pound of cheese a night (which I do. I can still eat the cheese, I just have to stop looking like I eat the cheese. I kind of want that to be a new laudatory phrase like "takes the cake." "Boy, that Gabe. He really eats the cheese."). One too many periods in that last sentence, but you get my drift.

My gym of choice? Crunch, which sports such amenities as a rock climbing wall and a boxing ring, neither of which I'll ever use. According to some (read: Kath), it's a gay gym as well, which amuses me because I've always wanted to work out next to Fred Schneider. But, I have to say, the gym is a delight, though I have little to no knowledge about how most of the equipment works. Half way through a weight training regimen, I realized I had my balls in the cash register (perfectly split between the ones and fives, I might add). Any actual exercise I get is just icing on the cake, I figure.