Drop and give me 20.

Some of you very, very observant readers might have noticed that, in spite of my occasional forays into fat-freakout-land, I never write about working out. I never have amazing stories about spin class instructors, or defective treadmills, or “gym crazies” (the hilarious topic of this favorite post from my friend Kate’s now-defunct blog).

This is not because I go to the world’s most boring gym; rather, it’s because I just don’t go to the gym, period.

My gym-free status came about in a complicated way. There were a good few years back there where I did exercise; I belonged to the YMCA, I took yoga classes, I stepped it out to workout tapes (yes, that’s right, tapes) in my tiny living room. I even took up running. Hell, I was an exercise QUEEN.

But then, I lost my gym membership card. And rather than doing the mature thing, namely paying the $5 that it would have taken to replace it, I was convinced that I would find it any day. Defiantly, I decided that I would simply not go to the gym until it turned up. It was a position I maintained even as the days went by with no sign of it, and even after my favorite exercise tape (a boot camp video by Crunch, whose workout tapes I love specifically because the background exercisers always include at least one obviously gay man doing lunges in a pair of cutoff denim shorts) was irreparably eaten by the VCR a few days later. I was a woman on a mission. Also, “Whatever,” I said, “I can always run.”

Which was true.
For a week.

Until the day that I went out for a jog only to find that everybody I passed on the street was looking at me… oddly. I thought it was because of my sneakers, which were a) purple and b) completely hideous, but then, after getting a mile away from my apartment with no idea what might be wrong, I happened to glance down and discover that the weird looks had nothing to do with my ugly sneakers and everything to do with the fact that my entire left breast -- the WHOLE THING -- had somehow freed itself from my sports bra and had been cheerfully bouncing around in plain view for upwards of ten minutes.

At which point I hid under the Williamsburg Bridge until it got dark, then snuck back to my apartment where I decided that, in light of recent events, God clearly was sending me a message, and that message was, “Do not work out.”

This was actually fine with me, because frankly, I have never enjoyed working out. And it wasn’t making me thin. And what’s the point of doing something you hate when you aren’t even getting rock-hard abs out of the deal?

So two years ago, I made a conscious decision to completely eschew any sort of formal exercise, choosing instead to believe that just walking to and from the subway every day will be enough make me skinny. (Ed note: It hasn’t, but... eh.) And I am no longer doing something that makes me miserable, which I think we can all agree is important.

All told, I was probably the happiest sloth in Brooklyn.

But then, last month, I read something about pushups: namely, how one’s ability to do them is a prime indicator of overall physical health and capability, and how old people are always shattering their hips because they can’t perform the pushup-esque motion of breaking their own fall, should they happen to stumble.

I told Brad about it. Naturally, his response was, “Can you do a pushup?”
“Of course I can!” I said. Except I started wondering – could I, really? When was the last time I had done a pushup? Not a knee pushup, but a real one?

I must have looked worried, because he suddenly demanded, “Let’s see you do one.”

“Okay,” I said. I got down in plank position, supporting myself with my arms and making sure my spine was perfectly straight. So far, so good.

“Ready?” said Brad.
“Ready!” I said, and with great fanfare, I carefully bent my arms and lowered my chest toward the ground. And then I pushed myself back up.

Okay, no. I didn't.

I certainly pushed myself back up on the inside. I mean, I tried! I really did! And my muscles certainly felt, based on the screaming protest they immediately sent up, that I was pushing myself up.

But this was in no way evident in what actually happened, which is: I held stock-still in my elbows-bent-chest-lowered position for several seconds, made a squeaking sound, and face-planted into the floor.

At which point I became concerned – not only because Brad was laughing so hard that he fell off the bed, but because, while I still hate exercise, I also don’t want to fall down and die just because I cannot do a fucking pushup.

I had to start small, of course. Most strength-building exercises are predicated on the exerciser’s being able to perform the activity in question at least once. At the beginning, all I could manage was Wall Pushups, later graduating to Dresser Pushups, and then Chair Pushups, and then Bed Frame Pushups. I have, if nothing else, become intimately acquainted with just about every piece of furniture in my apartment.

But today, all of that changes. Because today… I did FIVE pushups.

ON THE FLOOR.

I know this doesn’t make for the world’s greatest blog post, but damnit, I had to tell someone.
Would it help if I mentioned that they were naked pushups? 'Cause they totally were.