Athleticism, the morning after.

I can barely, just barely, lift my arms. I was able to do today's necessary xeroxing, but lifting my backpack is a challenge, and there's not a whole lot in it other than a decadent (Decadent?) novel about a character who probably wouldn't have bothered with the free weights.

The verdict: I lasted a whopping nine minutes on the treadmill. To be fair (to make excuses) I ran most of the way to the gym, and ran quickly once on the thing. In addition, I used the free weights (100 lbs each, obviously) and some of the machines. I thought of "Borat" while on the treadmill, and it seemed as if each machines involve an action that mimics a different toilet or otherwise non-public activity, and thus it's quite odd to me that people use these machines in front of total strangers. How did this become socially acceptable? Between the weirdness of the machines, the dullness of the treadmill, and my inability to lift anything remotely heavy, I remembered why running outside has long been the only exercise I attempt. But if the ab machine, odd as it is, does what it claims, perhaps it's worth the embarrassment.

As for the gym itself, it looks like something you'd pay a lot for, which I've decided means my stipend is effectively $10k a year greater than I'd assumed all along, in that my ID card includes a membership to this establishment. But it's the idea that counts. The entrance leads to a fabulous lounge, complete with a snack area where you can buy everything from protein shakes to coffee to Twix(!), and a clothing store where you can buy athletic clothing with an NYU logo, if that's your thing.

The problem with the gym is that it is impossible to navigate. Jo asked me how long I spent there, and I couldn't quite say. This is because I spent most of the time wandering up and down the stairs, incapable of finding the exit. A workout of sorts, but no machine told me how many calories it burned. I ended up leaving what might have been the wrong way, but the important thing is I left.