So it's free fitness week at the Chicago Park District, and while my friends may call me out as a liar for saying this, I couldn't be more enthused. I think this is such a great idea, especially with New Year's resolutions and all, and yet, I know whole-heartedly that I will not be attending.

Why, you might ask?

This is a simple question that requires a simple answer, however, that will not be the case. I, my friends, believe that working out in public is the equivalent of hell on earth. I just feel like the sight of my un-toned arms flapping by the wayside should be an in-home activity. Plus, nothing disgusts me more than the thought of slapping on some skin-tight ensemble and hitting the gym. By the time you've walked off 300 calories, that outfit is lacquered to your body so tight, it becomes a whole different workout trying to rip the spandex off your sweaty body.

I work out, don't get me wrong; it's just that I prefer to do it while watching mind-numbing television in the comfort of my own home. At my house, there's no tricky equipment to navigate, no tribal tattoos to be seen, and when I'm thirsty, I can grab a whole mug of water without waiting in line just to get an ounce of cold water which I must slurp through one of those flimsy paper-cone cups.

I ask myself, was I born this way? Was I birthed with an innate sense of fear for public workout facilities? Perhaps. I have memories of being a young girl forced to face the lockers in the public dressing room of our local JCC while my mother stripped down into her sweats before popping into a jazzercise class. Literally every which way my eyes averted, there would be a naked woman parading about, exhausted and unkempt, either coming or going to a workout class. Perhaps this is what frightened me so; the idea that I too may someday become a sweaty old lady with no qualms about flinging my bra across the room and b-lining it to the public showers. Can you imagine the bacteria in there? (My parents also instilled me with a healthy fear of athlete's foot.)

The previous paragraph might lead one to conclude that I was, in fact, born with this fear. But as I ruffle through more present memories, I realize that I did work out in public. In elementary school, I figure skated, and from then on, I was a dancer. These are all activities that require you exert energy, and sweat, while remaining in a public place. The idea of taking a dance class doesn’t turn me off, because I know what I'm doing. Boarding a heavy, germ-infested piece of equipment, however, does turn me off. Why? Because, frankly, I feel that I am just pretending to know what I’m doing.

A few weeks ago, my aunt fell ass-backwards off of a treadmill, only to find herself lodged between a set of outlets, and a muscular gentleman lifting weights behind her. While I was not there to witness this rather bizarre occurrence, I can tell you this: I do not ever want to be the person who is helped up by fellow gym-goers, and escorted to the emergency room. Could you imagine the conversation that would ensue between you and every other health professional at that hospital? I’m sure it’s fairly common, but none-the-less, no thank you.

Long story short, I much prefer doing excessive amounts of sit-ups and squat-thrusts from my cozy little home. There, the only people who can see and make fun of me, are the people walking down my street, lucky enough to catch a glimpse of me in my sweat-suctioned nightgown, arms and legs akimbo, ponying my way through the beloved Xanadu soundtrack.

At least if I injure myself at home, I can save myself the embarrassment by calmly telling the doctors that I sprained my ankle "vacuuming" or something else I don't do but would like to.