Join a gym, my doctor ordered.

Being a gym rat is so, not me. I've spent my life avoiding exercise.

Even at Sunnydale and Sunny Terrace grade schools, recess was my worst subject.

At Highline High, Drill Sgt. Wendell, my P.E. teacher, made every school day a living hell for me.

Marge offered to join the health club with me.

But I don't know how much moral support she can provide.

Marge was usually a team captain in P.E.-a real teacher's pet, I bet:

"Oh, oh, Miss Landers, can I put away the balls? Where should I drag the mats? Why don't I untangle the ropes?"

In her twenties, she starred on the "Chico Chicks" parks and rec women's basketball team in California.

Another way to explain the gap in our athletic prowess: Marge was always the pitcher; I was always the right fielder.

Anyway, we decided the most important first step was buying fashionable sweat pants. That meant long shopping trips to Big 5 Sports and Sports Authority.

My new pair of sneakers also was not good enough. I had to buy cross-training shoes.

What's the difference between sneakers and cross-trainers? Oh, about 30 bucks.

As it turned out, our fellow fitness club members just wore ratty old junk they pulled from the back of their closets.

We didn't check out the dress code on singles night.

For our orientation, we picked a petite, perky personal trainer.

Marge figured she would be less intimidating than the hulk with a bowl haircut and a muscle shirt.

I sensed she was the Energizer Bunny type who would demand we "cardio" all day long. Demonstrating the weight machines, she flashed a pretty good set of biceps, too.

Her business card listed a B.S. in "Exercise Science" from Eastern Washington University.

I dismissively imagined her senior project was completing 400 sit-ups in one class period.

However, she explained her course work included classes in kinesiology, the science or study of human muscular movements.

So, you dudes that are still in high school, even if your career ambition is to work at a gym slapping on the bronzing lotion and flexing your pecs, you gotta pass advanced science and math.

After the orientation, I strolled along for a while on a treadmill while those on neighboring machines sprinted marathons.

I found the elliptical machine to be like a Universal Studios ride.

The weight machines are right out of a torture laboratory making me very resistant to resistance training.

Marge listens to audio books while exercising. Like most women, she's used to multi-tasking so she gets bored just doing one thing.

I sometimes listen to my Walkman (advanced technology) to drown out the treadmill sounds.

But I can also stay occupied just trying to keep track of what I'm doing:

"Now was that 11 or 12 repetitions? Is it breathe in while extending or breathe out? Was that just my 13th repetition?"

Staring at the amazing feats of my fellow fitness club members can get me into trouble.

Like the young woman doing incline sit-ups while tossing a medicine ball to her companion:

"Buzz off, Pops."

Or the 80-year-old guy lifting the heavy weights:

"What you looking at, Sonny?"

So I've become one of those annoying coworkers I've always hated who sanctimoniously stash a gym bag on their car's front seat. When you walk by their vehicle, you can't miss it.

We've just started so we'll see how it goes.

I sure hope our trainer isn't right that, after the first two weeks, we'll be too sore to sit on the commode.

Eric Mathison can be reached at hteditor@robinsonnews.com or 206-388-1855.