Pressganged

I think I might have been tricked into being a Baptist.

I can't be sure -- it's all so confusing!  But let me back up.  I'll tell you how this happened to me, and you can decide for yourself.

Recently, I realized that I am completely out of shape.  I may be skinny and give off the illusion of being healthy, but trust me, I am very, very out of shape.  In high school, I played hardcore sports, including soccer, basketball, and Ultimate Frisbee.  As a result of these recreational activities, I was quite nimble and rather strong for my measly, almost unhealthy 110 pounds.

Then came college.  Ahhhh, college.  You know the Freshman Fifteen?  Well, a steady diet of all the dairy and cheeseburgers I could eat got me up to the Freshman Twenty-Five.  I was finally at a healthy weight for my 5'9" frame, and I didn't care if it was all mostly collected in my butt.

Still, I maintained some exercise in my college life.  Since we lived on a sprawling campus, it was easy to keep my soccer legs just by walking or biking to class, if I went to class.  I very nearly got lost hiking on the myriad nature trails available to students.  And for two semesters, I was enrolled in Wado-Ru karate.  I thought I was taking an easy PE credit, but it turned out to be way more legitimate and muscle-building than I anticipated.

Fast-forward to December, 2010.  The most daily exercise I was getting was walking from my apartment to my car, from my car into work, and back again.  The rest of the day was spent sitting in some kind of cushiony seat, usually staring at a computer or TV screen, with a Dr Pepper in hand.  You can see how my soccer legs had been slowly losing strength.  I had come to the nasty realization that anytime I tried to play a sport which involves running, I was lagging behind with the proverbial stitch in my side after only ten minutes.

That is simply unacceptable.

With a newfound zeal for the belief that being skinny is no excuse for being a couch potato, I immediately set out in search of a place to work out.  And when I say 'I set out,' what I mean is, I sat on the couch and pulled up Google on my computer...

I hadn't worked out since I played soccer formally for my high school, six years ago.  But I was sure I could get back into the swing of things.  My internet search yielded several options in my area.  Well, it listed several high-priced exercise venues in my area, anyway, which weren't exactly options after all.

Dejected, I explained my Out of Shape Woes to my superhero Mom, who suggested a brilliant solution, as usual.  She suggested the Rec Center most kids in the neighborhood used for pick-up basketball games.  Apparently they had a walking track and work-out room in addition to the gym full of high school boys.  They also happened to be located in and run by a Baptist church.  But the best was yet to come: only $75 per year!  This was a deal I could not pass up.

I took PurpleFriend, PinkFriend, and GreenFriend along on the tour, hosted by CuteBoy (age unknown).  CuteBoy was a good tour guide, leading us to the different exercise areas with quiet tolerance of our loud, inside-jokey interactions.  Once back in the lobby, CuteBoy explained that there were two types of members-- walking track members (only $45 a year), and full members (who got access to everything, including the racquetball courts!).  And at the end of the night, I purchased a year's membership to the whole building.

When I came back a week or so later, I'll admit to being a little disappointed that CuteBoy wasn't manning the desk.  Instead, I met ElderlyGuy.  I asked ElderlyGuy for my membership number (86), as I had been instructed to do.  Quite without warning, ElderlyGuy started asking me questions, which was unexpected.  But I was feeling righteous and fierce because I was about to exercise!  So I ignored the socially challenged alarm bells and did my best impression of chatting with the fellow.

New member?  Easy one.  Yes.  Yes, I am a new member.  I am a new member who's about to get spectacularly toned on that elliptical you've got upstairs.

Walking track member?  That's one a little tougher.  I get to use more than the walking track.  I get to use the elliptical.  So no.  The answer is no.  I am an everything member?

A church member?  Oh.  I don't think that's what I signed up for.  Maybe it's just the name they call it?  Or do they make people pay to be a member of their church?  Oh, dear.  Did I pay to be a church member just to get access to their gym?  Do I have to take communion before I can use the elliptical?!  Am I a phony?  Am I going to Hell?!

By the time I had asked myself these questions, I had already gotten my card and a locker, and I had started my warm-up on the walking track.  I was walking behind two Latina women, who were speaking rapid Spanish without realizing I could understand every word of it.

But I was too distracted by the question of my denominational status to be listening to them.  It was in the midst of this existential crisis that I passed the two Latina walkers, who had stopped for a stretch.  It was unavoidable now.  I had to eavesdrop.

"She has the legs of a soccer player," said the younger woman, watching me walk past.

The older woman, undoubtedly the younger one's mother, responded with, "She has the legs of a giraffe."

GIRAFFE LEGS?!

I cast a shocked glance at my legs.  They are skinny, and disproportionately long.  You'll hear no argument from me about that.  But, giraffe legs?!  Do I really have giraffe legs?

I'm still not sure if this church is trying to trick people into buying memberships to heaven's gym, but I am pretty sure you can't be a Baptist against your will.  I signed up to get ripped using their elliptical, and I intend to do just that!

As long as that surprise helping of Salvation comes with a side dish of No Giraffe Legs, I say, "Amen, Brother!  Shanghai away."