The escalator from my building is a bit ominous, too narrow to be comfortable for most of America�s stature and leading underground -- something I can�t help but equate with damp, dark, and �dew-y (as in mildew-y -- don�t ruin my alliteration, please).

As soon as you reach the bottom of the moving stairs, you�re hit with the smell of the smoking lounge down the opposite side of the hall. My twice-weekly trips to the Taco Bell Express have taught me exactly when to hold my breath to avoid the smell, saving my asthmatic lungs from seizing up on me.

Turn the opposite direction from the smoke, and there�s a regular ol� lunch lounge that�s empty. The lights are too bright, and there are these courtesy cards folded, informing everyone that this isn�t the smoking lounge. Only once have I seen anyone in there, and that woman looked like she was straight from Huffman, Texas -- with the too-big hair, too much makeup, stretchy stirrup pants topped with a button-up plaid shirt, and complete appearance and aura of trailer park living.

Hop down a couple steps, and there�s another room before making the turn to the food court�s revolving doors. The room�s glass windows, however, are blocked by butcher paper and safeguarded by an electronic card reader. The decorative etchings and the brightly colored flyers advertise a gym.

Now you�ve got my attention.

When I first moved here, I rollerbladed each precipitation-free day. Once work started, this was tossed. You know how it goes. When you leave work, all you want to do is go home. When you get home, all you want to do is stay there. Rollerblading became a weekend-only activity, and I made my attempt to work out in my building.

The management office was nice enough to dedicate some real estate square footage and provide a workout facility. I won�t get all snobby here, dissing their all-in-one weight machine that supposedly has fifty different exercises (only to leave you gasping and worn out after the mental exercise of figuring out what pin goes in what slot pulls which string that collapses the house that Jack built.

I won�t bust on the stair stepper with the plastic parts protector missing, leaving me fearful that my Old Navy yoga pants (what I�m now calling my Perfect Pants since mine are sufficiently worn to hell after four short months of wear [and apparently tear]) will get stuck in the pulleys and levers and belts, dragging me along with it.

I�ll also not mention how each time I�m down there, pounding away on the treadmill in only those newly anointed Perfect Pants and two sports bras (the girls need the support, even if they�re little girls), that my building�s security guard suddenly decides to check the security of the basement�s damp, dark, and �dew-y (yes, there�s that alliteration again) workout room. He�s like friggin� Santa Claus -- checking it once, checking it twice. If he�s being naughty, it must mean I look nice.

The apartment�s workout room really has what anyone would need. It�s certain nothing fancy, but my Snobby McNoseintheair attitude makes some valid points that lead to one major point: This isn�t a place I want to work out.

I tried some other options. My Pilate�s DVD�s dance session and abs workout rocks my socks. I love how loosey goosy I feel after placing my chest to the floor at the end of my yoga DVD. The Tae Bo doesn�t do much, but I�ve found that if I do the tape twice through, it�s just about right. My Darren�s Dance Grooves (don�t laugh -- you know you have it too!) moves too quickly to teach the dances but not fast enough to be an actual workout. And let�s talk about resourcefulness: Those 18 flights of stairs in my building do nicely for a hardcore workout that only my MP3 player blasting Britney Spears (I *do* know the choreography to Crazy after Darren�s Dance Grooves) can get me though.

Despite my good intentions and having the resources, this still hasn�t worked out quite how I want my workout to.

So why not just bite the bullet and join a gym? Remember the affliction I described when talking about my Perfect Pants? Cheapassitis is what I believe I called it. After the $250+ initiation fee and the $65+ per month in membership dues, we�re looking at some serious investment. And although that should motivate me to be there each and every single day to ensure I get my money�s worth, it�s been difficult to cough up that initial amount and make a commitment to this. I rationalized that my health and improving my rockin� body was worth $1.75 a day, but I wanted to make sure that this would be something I�d want to stick with.

I promised that if I worked out three measly times per week in my building, I�d reward myself with a gym membership to build on that new habit.

Each day after work I�d resist temptation to pet the kitties who oh-so-insistently meowed for my attention.

I neglected feeding my rumbling belly, knowing that once I had a little something to tie me over, I�d just want to start the dinner that would most definitely make cramps and vomit if I were to try to work out soon afterwards.

I ignored that I had things to write or read or talk about or whatever else it is that I do when I get home at the end of the day.

I�d lace up the trusty Adidas, throw on two sports bras, and cover my bum with the yoga pants.

That lasted a whole three days before the lactic acid build up turned me into Whiney McWhinerson. That shiny gym membership wasn�t to be.

However, while walking past the butcher papered doors, a bright flyer caught my eye. The monthly charges were well below the local mega gym�s prices, putting me at the cost of one night�s boozing with the girls. Not only was that way reasonable, but the initiation fee was about the same cost of me picking up the dinner tab on a typical date. And at the bottom, surrounded by asterisks, they advised me to ask about a discount through my employer.

I called the given number, talked with a friendly man named Paul who invited me to the damp, dark, and �dew-y underground to have a look around. He buzzed me through the locked doors, shook my hand, and led me into the well-lit room. Rows of machines were available, free weights were stacked neatly, and everything was super clean. There�s no sauna (which I wouldn�t use anyway), Jacuzzi (which I wouldn�t use anyway), long list of classes (which I wouldn�t use anyway), or pool (which I wouldn�t use anyway), but there are lockers, a towel service, clean showers, and the fanfuckingtastic elliptical running machine, all located a short ride down from my office.

Paul and I had a seat at his desk and started filling out the quick paperwork. When he went to fill in the employer part, he entered my exceptionally large international consulting firm and said, �That will bring your total to $24 per month, and we�re halving your initiation fee.�

Holy shit, Batman. Mama�s got no complaints here.

So tonight I did my first workout in the gym. I went on the fantabulistic elliptical machine, cranking that puppy up and pretended to run for 30 minutes while jamming to Britney, Justin, and Christina on my MP3 player. Afterwards I did the arms free weights circuit I once read about in a healthy person magazine, and followed that up with some very military pushups. I stretched like the gum you step in on a hot July afternoon, laying my chest against the exceptionally clean carpet and closing my eyes.

I showered using their complimentary soap/shampoo dispenser, dried my hair with their hair dryer, packed up my stuff, and headed home by 7:00.

My breathing felt deeper, my head clearer, and my heart as if I dislodged a few marshmallows. I felt so good that I flossed.

Before you know it, I�ll demand that you call me MuscleJo or TightBunsJo or just simply Abs.

And you�ll do it to.

Why? �Cause I�ll be able to chase you down and kick some serious ass. �