And if I had the coordination to operate a Nordic Track, I'd be a professional athlete and exercise would not be an issue. The Thigh Master actually gave me the power to crush beer cans between my legs. But with the limited amount of fraternity parties I plan on attending, that's a marginal benefit at best. Unfortunately, infomercial miracle products aside, exercises only work when they induce panting, muscle spasms and the occasional brain hemorrhage. The only people who enjoy working out already have perfect physiques.
Real people can only become presentable after enduring large amounts of pain.
Though I had few personal problems with my somewhat mushy pre-exercise body, social necessity has forced me into the gym. If a lingerie-clad Marv Albert can lure multiple women into all sorts of lurid relationships, fame should adequately camouflage any physique problems I might possess. Though I once believed that an appealing personality and a modicum of physical conditioning increased your desirability to the opposite sex, apparently the lure of money and a reflected spotlight can cure any deficit. So with fame not a practical option, I'll continue lifting, aerobicizing and generally engaging in activities that require me to wear unflattering outfits and carry a water bottle. And while I'll never lift a Buick, or even a Le Car, over my head, I'll probably continue to fit into my clothes.