I am athletic. I do many things that can be considered attempts at physical fitness. I even have a whole workout regime: I walk (to class), I lift things (on a fork to my mouth) and I even stair climb (like on the horrific day when all six of Funger’s elevators were out of commission). And while the extent of my athletic prowess can be contested, there was a point when I actually worked out in the conventional way. Believe it or not, I trundled my pudgy little legs over to the gym. However, those days are over, for frankly, the Health and Wellness Center made me feel unwell.

The “Hell Well” was designed to deter those of us with the smallest shred of reservations about baring our body and exposing our rippling, jiggling selves to the world from even entering the gym.

First, we have to assess the construction. The very entrance is a veritable booby trap for the chunky or dimwitted. The GWorld swipers are mounted backwards! I cannot tell you how many icepacks I have needed for the countless times that – thinking I was swiped and home free – I have strolled right into the turnstile only to find that it was rigid still, and smashed my poor pelvic bone into its villainous, gleaming face.

Then there are the turnstiles themselves. Their very design discriminates against the most corpulent of us, being a mere three feet in diameter. While an adequate amount of shoving may allow one to slide through, one still runs the risk of scuff marks on one’s love handles. Similarly, the puny lockers can hardly hold a decent sized muumuu.

Then there are the people. It seems to me that everyone who braves the turnstiles and actually enters the gym is already fit and beautiful. How am I to work on my obliques if I am distracted by the hunks of man-flesh rippling and glistening in the weight-room’s fluorescent glow? Speaking of those lights, anyone with half a brain cell knows that dim, blubber-concealing lights are most conducive to a productive workout.

I guess without lights no one would be able to see the athletes’ workout wardrobes. Each girl is the proud owner of a snazzy set of gym clothes, which for the most part consist of matching sports bras, snug T’s and hot-pants. For nerds, or the more politically correct “cool-challenged” like myself, this factor can be especially intimidating. Watching these girls run ceaselessly on treadmill after treadmill, one is reminded of Amazons stampeding down endless catwalks in some playboy version of heaven.

It is with much difficulty that I admit that I will never belong to these legions of Diesel bunnies. The Health and Wellness Center was not made for my folk. I would go further and speculate as to what conspiracy is behind this deliberate exclusion of me and the legions of the lazy, but I simply cannot. I must go get a Powerade – all this typing has been quite a workout.

–The writer is a freshman majoring in philosophy and political science.