On most opening days, we see our hero struggling in a pool of sweat, wishing he could die, feeling more of a fat piece of shit than ever before, and nearly giving up. My own first day was significantly less dramatic. I hit up the Body Pump class at my local gym, Frog Fitness. My teacher was a new mom (she’d given birth to twins only seven weeks previous) and was about 37 years of age. She was good-looking enough. Pale-skinned. Nice teeth. Straight-cut bangs. Moles on her white skin, non-cancerous, of course!

Around me were two gentlemen, one about 50 years of age and looking pretty healthy, and one a bearded muskrat who was about my age, but fatter.  (Yes!) We represented the only testicles in the class. It was 5:30 PM and cold as Alex Rodriguez’s bald nuts in a cup of frozen Lipton. I hate January and I hate winter.

Several sexy young women dotted the class. Out of strict moral principle, I tried not to look at them in the mirrors the whole time. I have a bad habit of being a mirror-stalker, and I could tell these girls didn’t want to be stared at. For most young women, sadly, classes are simply about excercise, not a long-yearned for chance to show off their killer gams. In fact, one thing I’ve noticed about young girls is that they don’t even really understand how hot they are. I didn’t understand how hot they were, when I was their age; but being older, I now have a good perspective on how perfect a 20 year old’s skin is, and how bouncy her perfect tits are and how much fun we would have in a naked sauna environment, were I ever able to convince her to jump in one with me. This being my first time in a Body Pump class, I kept my mouth shut, eyes ratched forward, and just tried to do the things my enthusiastic, pale-skinned 37-year-old instructor told me to.

None of it was too hellish. I couldn’t do some of the “squats”, but really, I don’t care. I am not looking for all-over balance. I am just not INTERESTED in my legs, butt, arms, or anything else being toned. None of that stuff. All I’m interested in is getting rid of my belly. I have focused on it like a laser. I have joined a pro-ana website. (Kidding) And I am glad to report that I think we burned some fat off its lumpen-proletariat structure, but I cannot be sure. Will look at it for a long time before I shower tonight. (And then will subscribe to pro-ana website.)

By the way, one of the worst things about being a fatboy is looking at yourself in the morning. I don’t know about you, but I always feel slightly disgusting and queasy in the mornings, and the last thing I need to stare at is a gross version of myself. And yet I turn the water on, wait for it to get hot - and there it is. Reflected back at me: Fatboy, pale and haggard. That’s really not what I need to see in the early AM. (I hate to sound like Cathy Guisewhite here. That is not what I am intending. God help me.)

Can we rig up a “smart mirror?” We have “smart televisions” - I wouldn’t mind looking a lot better in a “smart mirror” (tanner, for instance; or even just kind of blurrier) than I do in real life. You could deceive me, present a basically pixellated verison of myself, and I’d be way happier for it. This is an idea.

Tomorrow I have work, so I have to get up at the ungodly hour of 9:00 AM to make my Pilates class at Frog Fitness. My teachers is going to be the same new-mom as taught today. She was certainly cheery; I think there is something wrong with her.

. . .

Maybe I will get a good idea out of this thing - as in, something to write about in the “experiential journalism” vein. One week is good for an article; but one year is good for a book. I wonder, would anyone pay for me to go to an adult fat farm? Do they even exist?