Lemondrop

I do not care for exercise. As a child, I became a sort of connoisseur of gym class excuses, once going so far as to dislocate my own finger to avoid the certain humiliation of rope climbing. Still, much as I dislike the process, I appreciate the results of physical activity: diminished muffin top, increased energy and a smug certainty that you have earned that second piece of pie. And so I am willing to give exercise a chance to woo me. With so many ways to get fit, surely there is one that I won't find unbearable.

Through a very scientific process involving asking my fitter friends what they do to stay svelte and flipping desultorily through an old issue of "Self," I have assembled a list of potentially tolerable exercise options. I intend to give each one a week, with the hope that something will meet both of my criteria: 1. Said activity is an effective means of whittling my body into something less ... huggably soft. 2. Said activity doesn't erode my will to live. My first attempt? Jogging.

Running is one of the oldest forms of exercise, originating as a way for our ancestors to keep from ending up as some creature's dinner. If the practice has endured for so many years, there must be something to it. My neighborhood is flush with runners -- lithe, serious-looking people in clothes chosen not for style, but for their respiratory ability. There is even a running-gear store a few blocks away, and because I am fairly certain my ratty pair of Converse is not appropriate jogging footwear, I head there first.

Click here to find out how Alexa's shopping trip went.


"I need some new shoes," I tell the saleswoman. I give a rueful, hopefully athletic-sounding chuckle. "I haven't run in quite a while!" I see no need to mention that by "quite a while" I mean "since the seventh grade."

The saleswoman makes me bend down and then traipse to one end of the store and back so that she can assess my gait. At least, that is what she claims to be doing -- it could very well be some sort of non-runner hazing done for the amusement of the rest of the sales staff.

I have always regarded shoe shopping as a simple process: 1. Enter store. 2. Select fetching shoes in appropriate size. 3. Produce credit card. 4. Exit store.

Running shoes, apparently, are different. For one thing, I am told that they ought to be about a half to a full size larger than your regular shoes. And then there is your foot type -- do you have flat feet? High arches? Do you underpronate or supinate or some other technical term that means "walk incorrectly?"

But here I am, an hour later and $80 poorer: properly equipped and out of excuses. As I type, I am wearing a pair of silvery running shoes. By the time you read this, I will be actually exercising -- voluntarily! I'll let you know how it goes.

Alexa Stevenson will be trying out various exercise techniques and documenting them every other week on Lemondrop.