For someone who loathes the gym, I’ve been spending an awful lot of time there. Why suddenly decide to brave the guidos, stalker personal trainers and all-around stink fest that is my local Bally Total Fitness? I’ll tell you why. The men in my life.

And here they are, in no particular order, the masculine motivating factors for going back to the gym:

My Gym Buddy

If my persistence gets Trip to the gym on a semi-regular basis, and he passes his PT Test for the Sheriff’s office this spring, I cash out. That’s right. I nag him to go to the gym and he PAYS me. In case you missed that, I’m getting paid to nag. Now, not being a nagger by nature (in fact, being a very poor nagger even with practice), this isn’t quite as easy as it sounds. But, seeing as Trip and I will probably be forced into a back-up marriage at some point within the next 10 years, it’s beneficial that I learn how to badger him early on. And get a couple hundred bucks while I’m at it.

My Brother

The challenge has been set. When he graduates from the police academy in June, my brother and I are going on one of our Wilderness Adventures. In college (when I was, shall we say, not so squishy as I am now), our Wilderness Adventures meant anything from strapping on snowshoes and a 60-pound pack in the dead of winter, to Colorado white water runs. I’m through with the whole, sacrifice my body on a Class Five river run (remember that?), so the specific challenge is still up for debate. I chose desert. He chose mountain. Sweet lord, let it be desert. I don’t care how many hours I bust it at the gym, I’m not going to have the sort of stamina I did back in the day. And I have some pride to save here. You know, seeing as this was my idea and all. Ahem.

My Doctor

I’m now convinced that he’s not out to prevent future non-cancerous breast tissue, but rather construct a race of ravenously hungry, water-retaining she-beasts. And I’m having none of it! Okay, the new rack was one thing (I can skip the bra and still have cleavage. Who’s complaining??), but I swear to god, if I wake up just one more morning feeling like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, I’m gonna have a melt down.

And last, but not least,

The Man

You know, as in THE Man. I have yet to set a date for my interview with the NY Monkey Firm (don’t worry, they’re in no hurry) because I can’t quite shimmy into my best suit. It’s either shell out another $400 for a new one, or get thee to Bally. I don’t even remember being such a cute size six, but I clearly was once, and I went suit shopping. Silly girl.

(Oooh, and according to my source -- good morning, source! -- we may have a mainland siting of the Cute Fireman next month. Huzzah! I won't officially add him to the list as that would just be... silly. Mmm hmmm.)