College is supposed to help one grow as an individual. God, however, has a sadistic sense of humor and takes these everyday metaphors literally. One day I'm walkin' the college walk, talkin' my college talk, and doin' the college thing, and the next I've gained the "Freshman 500" and dare not go outside for fear of being harpooned.
I do not know how I woke up one morning suddenly four times bigger around than my pants. I speculate I consumed a herd of bison the size of Liechtenstein in my sleep.
What I do know is this: When I recently visited a McDonald's in Cincinnati and ordered a 20-piece McNuggets, the cheerful McDonald's employee who allegedly "loves to see me smile" did not ask me whether or not I would like fries with that. This could only happen for two reasons:
1. She assumed I obviously would, in fact, want fries with that.
2. She noticed I did not, in fact, appear as though I needed fries with that.
Needless to say, I was most definitely not smiling. So I decided to conceive the inconceivable. I would start [gulp] exercising.
Back in the day, my best friend Danielle and I would walk to her house in downtown Middleville, Mich., after school and do Tae-Bo in our athletic shorts and brassieres.
We went through a half hour of listening to Billy Blanks' repeated commands to "tighten those abs" while flailing around like idiots trying to kick and punch in the right directions so as not to maim each other or ourselves. Afterward, instead of feeling refreshed and in shape, we often felt like a cross between Mimi of "The Drew Carey Show," Steve Urkel, and a blender.
To bring ourselves out of this heightened state of ego-mutilation, we often spent some time "Sweatin' to the Oldies" where the basic commands were to "keep smiling," "keep moving," "keep breathing," etc.
Also, it is difficult to feel inferior when the idea of the workout is to flail around like an idiot, and even then Richard Simmons looks 972 times dorkier than you at any and every given moment. This would be true even if you opted to do the entire workout covered in Jet-Puffed marshmallow creme.
But now I do not have Danielle or Richard. I have only my own pathetic willpower and the elderly runners who can move more quickly than I can and don't get winded.
During a recent visit to Ball Gym, I noticed a woman was doing stretches for the entire time I spent running. I am not a fast runner by any standards, so I considered this stretch time to be unnaturally lengthy. My suspicions were confirmed when I found she was chuckling in an amused manner every time I ran passed. (This may or may not have something to do with the fact that I may or may not have been breathing so hard that I sounded like some sort of tropical bird in heat.)
I was her entertainment. She most certainly would not be making those freakish sounds after only two laps. I was her Richard Simmons. Before I know it, I will be waxing my legs on a daily basis, wearing neon green spandex shorts and a hair band, and I will develop a nasal, highly irritating, gender-bending voice.
Amid this time of loathing and self-doubt, I will not be discouraged. I will run with my head held as high as conceivably possible, never forgetting to "keep smiling." That is, as long as I am always asked whether or not I would like fries with that.
Write to Aleshia at bari_girl@hotmail.com
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