I am sore, dear readers, and not from anything fun, like a strenuous new sex position called "the chandelier" or horse boxing. No, I'm sore because I've joined a gym. It's the first real gym I've ever been a member of, and it's gleaming and clean and beautiful and fresh and notably devoid of college guys hanging out to see women jog.

Although there are still naked ripped guys in the locker room talking about how they "can eat whatever they want and look like this, it's crazy." Yes, women, they exist in the male world too, and we hate them just as fiercely.

The gym's called Burn Fitness (in case you ever want to drop in and laugh at me while I try vainly to balance on a giant inflatable ball), and it's managed wonderfully, right down to the 20% discount at the greasy bar and grill downstairs. It's like some kind of symbiotic infinite loop of customer needs: first you get them fat off the irish nachos and poli-bacon burrito dogs, then you ship them upstairs to work it off and prep for dessert.

Notice that in my mind, the eating is the main event, whereas the exercise is a way to allow one to eat again. Actually, on second thought, don't note that. Forget it ever happened.

So far, my only non-I-hate-exercising complaints are the aforementioned naked Adonises strutting around the steam room like the rules just DON'T APPLY ANYMORE because we're in a gym, and the fact that the yoga instructor is trying to make my body murder itself.

I'm fairly certain "hanging dog" isn't a real pose, and I further maintain that it's very difficult to "breathe deep and relax" with one arm wrapped around your torso, the other somehow underfoot, and the yoga strap cinched tightly around your neck.

But I'll persevere. Why? For you, Guyspeak readers. Because in this business, image is everything, and as you look at my unchanging headshot day after day, I know you're really only reading because of the high level of fitness I maintain.

So...gym stories I guess? This post was particularly comment-provoking. Gyms, huh? GO!