SO I'VE FINALLY started going to the gym. Well, that's not true, I've always kind of gone to the gym. In the way where you go three to four times a week and you buy a menagerie of superfoods and you meander through the juicers at the store and wonder aloud how one could possibly be five times as expensive as the others, and then you eat a sandwich so good that you stop going to the gym for a few months and then you start up the cycle again.

Now, though, I'm serious. I've got a personal trainer. I've talked to a nutritionist. I'm in it, and this shit is kind of weird. Personal trainers are interesting people. You know, I grew up one of Beaverton, Oregon's greatest (syke!) high school football players (true)—so I've spent time in gyms, but never with a personal trainer. I always just saw them off in the distance, being too muscular for their own good. You know the type I'm typing about—their muscles seem to be fucking up their lives, like they're TOO buff (I tell myself.) They walk around all deliberately with their arms cocked up like they're covered in sleeping bees and they're trying not to wake them.