I’m beginning to think I may have joined the wrong gym. I just wanted a place to get out of the house, do a little cardio and boost my serotonin. But I’ve discovered that everyone there is training for some kind of competition that involves rippling muscles, grease and hair that, no matter how it’s styled, looks out of place on their heads.

During my intake interview, the instructor informed me that I was in danger of becoming “skinny fat”—which, I was told, means that I’ll look good in my clothes, but a person will be able to mush the flab on my arm without trouble. She then had me feel her biceps to get an idea of where I want to be. I told her that I was happy with just losing the baby weight for now. She did not look pleased.

The other tip-off that these might not be my kind of people occurred when I showed up for my first workout in my favorite exercise gear: a snug-fitting hologram shirt that from a distance gives the appearance of a ripped male bodybuilder’s torso, but up close displays my excess tummy flab. Instead of laughing, they looked at me sympathetically and told me not to worry, I’d get there, and then continued to encourage me throughout my workout. I imagine they all talked about me after I left. “Poor Ami, she’s not fooling anyone with that shirt.”  

Also, the people who work out at this gym are comfortable enough with each other and themselves to squeal like fat kids on Tater Tot Day while doing their sit-ups and bench presses. I promised myself a long time ago never to make sexual sounds while working out. That’s why I can’t actually play music on the headphones I wear so no one will talk to me: I’m afraid that I may not hear myself grunt, or that I’ll fail to regulate my breathing.

In addition to my new gym, I’ve started a raw diet. So far I am on my eleventh day of totally raw food. After about the third day I lost interest in trying to reproduce my favorite non-raw snacks. I tried a cookie called a Raweo, but in addition to its awkward name (it’s too similar to the name Rory, which comes out more like a disabled slur), the snack itself is not very good.

On the fourth day, feeling a bit lightheaded and not wanting another salad, I retired to the computer room, where I discovered that a friend had left his e-mail account open. Usually I’d close it, but hungry Ami decided to comb through the mailbox, searching for any mention of my name while muttering to myself “Let’s see what’s really going on” and “We’ll get to to the bottom of this”—not really sure what I was trying to get to the bottom of. When I found questionable material, I started shrieking to Ethan that we had a crazy person on our hands. He looked at me for a long time before pointing out that I was the one ferreting through someone else’s private e-mails.

I explained to him that I need something to replace the sandwiches that normally occupy my 9 p.m. time slot  and went about my business, occasionally shouting “Will you get a load of this guy?” “What a psycho!” and “Ohhhhh, I got your number now, buddy.”

I am starting to wonder just how healthy this new diet is.