Winter months are especially rough on an Irishman.

First, there’s the fair Irish skin. It sits hidden for months beneath winter sweatpants and emerges to an angry sun sometime in April, ready to turn from Miracle Whip to Pink Cadillac to Cincinnati Red in color. Ouch.

Then there’s your basic Irishman’s body. The good Lord and the Potato Famine made us leaner than Louis Rich turkey. When that gentle breeze brings us daily greetings from the frozen wastelands of Iowa, guys like me turn purple as a popsicle.

Just a painter’s pallet of color on this citizen.

Anyway, I’m not here to complain about the weather, Mr. Twain. I’m just tired of people meeting me and saying I’m much taller in real life, as if they thought my mugshot was actual size.

Yes, I’m tall and lanky, which is fine with me. But every once in a while, a gal from the bowling club comes over and punches me THREE TIMES on the leg. It is at times like these when I decide to get in shape.

Now me, I’m just your average guy. I work out regularly for a few months, then get lazy and work out only when Marlon Brando makes a movie.

I’ve been out of action since my PHED 104 class ended in December, so I linked up with my personal cartoonist—Todd the Bod God—and his roommate, Washington Redskins’ quarterback Jay Schroeder, for an afternoon of fun at the Reck Center.

That’s right—McCabe’s with weights.

Generally, you go out to that barn and there are more people than you can shake a stick at, only they won’t let you bring in a stick. The place is filled with people. People who need people. Only they’re not the luckiest people in the world because they don’t have dates. That’s why they’re there.

Guys flex in front of the mirrors, and girls get in between the guys and the mirrors. Girls show off their knowledge of proper curling technique, and guys stand behind them, oblivious of their curling technique.

And everyone dresses so nice. Lots of Spandex on the girls, lots of Spring Break ‘87 shirts on the guys.

I guess I worked out with Todd and Jay Schroeder because they both dress like they raided a Salvation Army drop-box. Plus, like me, they like to go during one of the rare and secret “down-hours,” when you can actually get on a bench without making a reservation.

So we worked out. It was very manly. Todd, being a Serious Lifter, swore and spat at us to psyche us up. In between sets, Jay Schroeder solicited autographs and explained why he fell flat on his face in the Skins playoff victory over the Bears.

I hadn’t benched in two weeks. Before that, it was more like a month. I stretched out, took that mother in my hands and pumped out 10.

Hey, hey—I’m talking about lifting weights.

I got through my first set. Dang, I was tired. But you know, it was a good kind of tired. Todd said, “Nice warm-up.” I said, “I thought we were done.”

When I had ripped enough upper-rib cartilage, the boys thought I had enough and threw me on the floor. Ah, sleep will feel good, I thought. Wrong. They made me do some stomach exercise derived from basic Turkish prison torture. I lost my lunch.

The nightmare continued late into the day. Then suddenly, the room was flooded with guys wearing maroon and turquoise sweats. With them were girls with leg warmers and Walkmans. Soon the clang of dropped weights and the cracks of arched backs filled the air.

Todd went into convulsions and ran screaming from the room. Jay Schroeder told anyone who would listen that he would have beat Denver 142-10. Then he ducked out the back door, setting off the fire alarm.

As for me, I tried crawling home and, like a good NIU student, was run over trying to cross Annie Glidden road.

And now, it’s Friday, and I face an exciting weekend at Kishwaukee Community Patch-Up. So much for exercise.