Using the elliptical doesn't affect my confidence

Though it does not require a mandatory laser scan for female genitalia before use, somehow the elliptical has gained the reputation of being a workout machine "for chicks." I am writing today, however, to assure you that I, as a male (those who know me well might even say an alpha male), do not let this crass stereotype, this vulgar indignity to one of the three great advances in fitness technology of the 20th century (free weights, Jazzercise) affect my steely, unwavering faith in my own imposing manliness.

No, I don't let my exclusive use of the elliptical at the gym get me down, don't let my preference for the thing shatter my self-confidence or any notions I may have about my Vin Diesel-esque machismo. When I encounter male friends at the entrance to Stephens Fitness Center — as I inevitably do, as though all the guys I know are part of some secret society devoted to snickering at me — they ask, "Hey, do you want to lift together?" and I reply, oh-so-casually, "Nah, I think I'm gonna hit the elliptical, or whatever" and they, automatically, "Oh, well after you're done warming up, maybe we can spot each other?" and I, correcting them, "No, I think I'm just going to stick with the elliptical today." When this conversation happens, and its meaning sinks in, the resulting, unavoidable awkward silence and the series of grunts that always follows ("Uhhh...welllll...Uhhhhhh...") does not diminish my resolve to work that elliptical, but rather increases it, makes me want to pump my arms and legs in an oval trajectory as hard as I've ever pumped my arms and my legs in an oval trajectory ever before.

So when I walk over to that row of ellipticals — nay, when I march over to the ellipticals, chest thrust outward, arms swinging gorilla-like at my sides, extra testosterone rushing through me, both from my new resolve and from my pre-workout meal (an injection of horse-grade growth hormone and a three-pound hunk of extra-rare, extra-bloody beef that I eat with only my teeth and my bare hands) — so when I march over there, to the machines dominated by Thetas and Pi Phis and other girls whose weights wouldn't hit triple digits if I spotted them 25 pounds and a Big Mac meal, I don't flush at being the only guy on the apparatus every single time; I stomp right on those pedals, select some high-tempo pump-up tunes on my iPod (the Venga Boys: heard of 'em?), and set the elliptical to "Cross Training," completely aware of the irony of being a male selecting "Cross Training" on a predominantly-female machine. Yes, I'm aware of the irony, and I embrace it, squeeze that irony with my gracefully-toned yet not overly-muscular biceps and forearms.

And when I'm using the elliptical, and I look up to the television in front of me to see what show the gym operators thought that elliptical users like myself would most enjoy, and the TV is without fail tuned to "America's Next Top Model," every single time, as though they'd found some channel devoted to it, I don't pretend to read Sports Illustrated or crane my neck to get a glimpse of ESPN2 with whatever NASCAR analysis they're running; no, I pump my arms and my legs in an oval trajectory and I stare straight up at "America's Next Top Model," and I critique the hairdos and the poses, and I wonder why they have to do so many photo shoots suspended upside down while dressed like mythical sea animals, and sometimes I can't contain my enthusiasm and I shout out: "Naima! Just lose already, you untalented, weird-faced antagonist of my life!" while the girls on adjacent ellipticals stare at me (I mean even more than they already are.)

And so I pump my arms and my legs in an oval trajectory, four limbs tracing four parallel ovals, mind tracing out the word "oval," a word that is completely feminine: "Oval," which is really just "ova," the female reproductive cells, plus an "L, " 'L' like "elle," as in "she," as in "girl"; but none of that bothers me, as I trace out my ovals, ovals like ovules, ovals like ova, my resolve a salvo against ovals, the only defense that I need against these claims that I use a "girls' exercise machine"; especially when you have my unflappable rectitude, my unreasonable righteousness and my Vin Diesel-esque machismo; and especially when you only go to the gym once every two months in the first place, using the elliptical for about three minutes, when my heart gives out, or at least until the end of "We Like to Party (The Venga Bus Is Coming)." Jason O. Gilbert is an English major from Marietta, Ga. He can be reached at jogilber@princeton.edu.