I don’t like gyms or sports clubs or whatever you call them.  The basic premise is a good one, but because membership must be purchased, it is an exclusive thing.  So I tend to feel a little out of place.  Too, such establishments are for the sake of being fit and well and muscular and I have cushy bits of which I am not so terribly proud (although I have some I love), so I feel like a sore, squishy thumb.  I’ve tried belonging to a gym; I bought a year membership at a gym in my hometown and I went a few days a week for several months.  I still felt dreadfully uncomfortable because there were incredibly ripped people there, that did hours of cardio instead of 30 minutes, and they used all of the weight machines in one day or they had a plan for every other day, and they always lifted at least half of their own body weight.  I Lifted ten pounds, eight pounds, twenty pounds.  I did whatever machines looked like fun or were being unused.  There were, frequently, attractive and buff males (buff as in strong, not in the buff) that would stomp around with their ridiculous arms and massive quads, and I just knew they were looking at me in my old high school t-shirt and sweatpants and judging me for not wearing Adidas, or Nike, or Reebok, or UnderArmor.  I knew they thought I was hideous, not because I hadn’t a pretty face or nice eyes or a kind smile or shiny hair, but because I wasn’t as exageratedly muscular as they.  I don’t like gyms.  They make me self-conscious and then I trip and have you ever tripped on a stairclimber?  Have you ever tripped on an eliptical machine, or a treadmill for that matter?  It’s not pretty.  You make weird faces and hit things with your weird faces.