I was in New York City when I decided that I didn’t want to be fat anymore. I was visiting the city over Spring Break and while walking the streets of Lexington Avenue I came to the conclusion that I wanted to start college this fall with a bright future and much less belly. I also told myself that there was really nothing stopping this from happening except my own willpower and determination. If I wanted to lose a few pounds, it was up to me. I am the master of my own fate.

I texted my friend Madi back in Texas to see if she’d be interested in helping me get in shape. Madi is very health-conscience, but not in one of those crazy, torturous ways. She’s also one of the sweetest, disciplined humans I know, so to me she was the perfect choice for a coach. She’s also the girl I’m taking to prom, so I figured she would also have an incentive for me to lose a few pounds. Madi agreed to help when she had some free time. That time would come two weeks later, aka, today.

Madi texted me last Sunday, asking if I wanted to work out. To be honest, I was apprehensive. I was also a bit insecure; I’m not the exercising type, and going to a gym with a girl, even with one whom I had a totally platonic friendship with, was a tad scary. But I told myself to suck it up and go. So I hopped in my car and drove to the local 24 Hour Fitness.

I dressed in red, non-ironic gym shorts and a green t shirt and met Madi at the front of the gym. She handed me a bottle of water and said, “Drink this. You’re 18, right?”

The water was mixed with one of those energy powders called Jacked. Madi told me I would have to drink it quickly and that it may make my limbs tingle. I drank it hesitantly; one doesn’t go against the orders of one’s Sensei. After getting the paperwork sorted out with the 24 Hour Fitness employees, Madi and I began our workout.

Here’s what I got done: I ran on the treadmill for a quarter of a mile; I stretched; I ran a mile on the treadmill; I did like 40 things of that device where you pull your legs up to your stomach while hoisting yourself up; 40 of some other machine where you lift weights on a wire with both hands and finally, the bicycle.

Now, maybe to someone who goes to the gym frequently, this reads as WAY too much for someone who never ever goes to the gym, or maybe that sounds just right. But to me, I was feeling good up to the bike. In retrospect, the bike was what sent me over the edge. A few minutes into the bike and I was feeling lightheaded. I told Madi that I had to use the restroom, but I guess I was visibly exhausted because she wanted to walk with me.

This is where it starts getting sad. I get to the water fountain, and I keel over; my belly pressing against the button, getting water on my shirt. Madi firmly tells me- though it’s clear this freaks her out- that I shouldn’t lean over if I’m feeling nauseous.

“Oh, right,” I say. “Sorry.”

This is when I collapse onto the floor.

Keep in mind; this isn’t your over-the-top, hand on forehead passing out. This is like an old, fat golden retriever with arthritis settling down for a nap. I wake up for a brief moment and look up to see Madi, horrified, saying “Please get up.”

“Alright,” I say. And then I pass out again.

When I come to again, I am surrounded by employees of the gym, two paramedics and a fireman with a stretcher and Madi, trying to come to terms with the fact that she may be charged with negligent manslaughter for trying to help her fat friend exercise.

I learned something while on the floor of 24 Hour Fitness, being questioned by paramedics; there comes a point when you must drop all pretentions or delusions of being cool. When you pass out in 24 Hour Fitness because your body cannot comprehend the concept of strain or exercise, in front of your prom date, it’s time to pack it in. That’s not even goofy, endearing, Judd Apatow type stuff. That’s just sad, sad, and sad.

The paramedics kept waiting for my story to get interesting. Did I do drugs recently? Did I have a disease or serious disablement? Did I perform tasks of physical fitness so awesome that I had no choice but to collapse? The answer to all of these were no. I was just grossly, almost comically, out of shape. The head paramedic had a handle-bar moustache and a thick Texas drawl. To him, I was the embodiment of what was wrong with the current generation. And he wasn’t entirely wrong.

After a few minutes of questioning and a blood test, (I don’t have high blood pressure. Yay.) the paramedics told Madi that she could drive me home to rest and pick me up later to drive me back to the gym to pick up my car. The car ride that followed was the second most awkward car ride of my life. As I hinted at before, it was impossible to turn this situation into anything but pathetic. I could not mask it with self-deprecating wit. This girl had seen me in my most vulnerable state; passed out on the floor of a gym in red shorts that I only prayed were all the way up. How do you turn that into conversation?

“So…um…I’ve never seen anything like that before,” she said.  “I mean, I’ve seen people pass out from dehydration when I worked at the Hawaiian Falls, but…”

“Yeah, it’s pretty weird,” I said.

“When you get home be sure to rest. And eat something, definitely eat something. With protein, protein is good right now.”

Madi was handling this like a champ. She was rattled and sympathetic, but was by no means feeling sorry for me or telling me that everything was totally cool.

“Going to the gym isn’t for everyone…” she said.

Okay, maybe she was feeling sorry for me a little.

She dropped me off at my house and told me to call her only after I was totally rested. I knocked on the front door and my little sister answered.

“What happened to your car?” she asked.

“I passed out at the gym and the paramedics said Madi had to drive me home,” I replied.

She gave me a funny look. I don’t think she had believed me when I told her I was going to the gym with my friend. I suppose it did sound a little far-fetched; there are few places more different than my natural habitat than a gym.

I took a nap, woke up, called Madi and she drove me back to the gym. This was not a good day. My first day of ‘Project Not Fat’ had gone about as disastrously as possible. Now, this story could’ve ended in two ways; it could be been yet another tale of the goofy, awkward fat guy trying his best and falling on his face, or it could be a hiccup; a rough takeoff to an otherwise successful flight. Ultimately, it was up to me. I am the master of my own fate.