I’ve never understood the appeal of gyms. Every machine under that roof is designed to crush, bend, or fling you in awkward directions in full view of an audience of stronger and better-coordinated athletes.

I spent the next humiliating hour trying to negotiate elastic resistance bands and sadistic treadmill controls, and when it came time to leave I was drenched in sweat and positively furious at that smug meathead Mendez, furious at my shaky arms, furious at the soccer moms who made spinning look easy, and even more furious still at my idiot roommate Tom.

“Jeez, nancy-boy, the only thing Rock Hard around here is your skull,” said Mendez.

“I need a nap,” I moaned. “A nap and a shower and maybe a slurpee.”

“Back to your place then?”

It was possible the lovebirds had taken flight. “Yeah, let’s see if Tomsie-Womsie’s gone yet.”

“And if he’s not?”

“You’re buying me lunch for a week.”

When we got back to campus, the apartment was deserted. But there was a neatly-wrapped present waiting for me on my bed.