Eighteen months of dedicated trips to the gym have shown me that no matter how much effort I expend, my abs will never ripple, my biceps will show nary a bulge and I will never possess a single body part of steel. So while my original plan called for never wearing a shirt again by next summer, my revised goals center on my continued ability to maintain a pants size.

Although I remain generally proud of my efforts, every fitness product ever created promises better results than I have seen. Apparently a dedicated five-day-a-week exercise program created by a personal trainer never works as well as even the cheapest infomercial gizmo. Everything from treadmills that fold to giant multi-purpose rubber bands, to oddly shaped plastic doo-dads, offer fantastic results in only 20 minutes a day, three times a week. Always one to trust any product sold on television after 2 a.m., I've tried a variety of these exercise gadgets, and they're about as useful as a Popeil Pocket Fisherman in the desert. My Health Rider hurt my back. The Ab Roller left me in bed for two days with stomach cramps. 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. As a twenty-something with hopes of marrying at some future date, letting myself go seems ill-advised. So, beyond exercise, my only real options were to become a sumo wrestler (which I deemed impractical because those diapers chafe and I look silly with a top-knot) or becoming famous.

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. Unfortunately, while my gym costs $39 a month, I have yet to find anyone willing to sell me a piece of fame. I'm sure late-night television has a solution for this as well, but I'm not spending any money on "Fame in a Can" or "The Amazing Celebricizer" until the infomercial people give me a refund for buying their exercise junk.

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.