Gym bunnies: a term so ubiquitous that even many non-exercisers know it, despite never having encountered an actual example. They are the ricers of the workout world; the ones who are utterly preoccupied with how good they look while exercising, while caring little to nothing about actual performance.Scarlett's descendants waltz gently through the gym, never picking up any but the lightest of dumbbells because, as they'll tell you, "I'm just here to tone my muscles." Meanwhile, they scope out the male exercisers, and when they find one that suits their needs, suddenly it's time for them to try to bench-press the bar...and of course, they need a large, manly spotter to help them.

I'm never certain what amazes me more: the fact that women feel the need to resort to acting like brainless cream puffs to get the attention to men, or the fact that some men actually take the bait.

* * * * *

Now that I've done Val's workout a few times, the prep work for my weights routine borders on scientific precision now. Pick an empty bench press station in the back. Water bottle, clipboard, and pen go on the floor next to it, as do an exercise mat and a physio ball. Read over the first four exercises, decide how much I want to try on the alternating shoulder press and the bench press, plate up the bench press, and grab the correct dumbbells.

I'd just decided that I wanted to try moving up to the 25-pound dumbbells for the alternating shoulder presses when I realized that I had the wrong size physio ball. In the meantime, he'd taken up residence on the incline chest press bench, but had gotten sidetracked by a three-point-shooting contest on the TV nearby.

We'd seen each other virtually every day since I started working out in January, and while I'd thought of him as a bit of a caricature for quite some time, over the past month I'd observed his workouts a little more closely and realized that he was not the bantam rooster I'd once assumed. True, he spent more time on his upper body, but his lower-body workouts were difficult as well. He was courteous, never hogged machines, and had a tattoo on his left tricep. I'd thought once that it might be a lightning bolt, but I wasn't sure.

"Hi. I know we've seen each other in here almost every day for nearly two months. I feel like I should at least say hi, or something like that." We shook hands, weightlifting glove to weightlifting glove, and for the first time, I saw him smile - wide, bordering on impish.

"I'm Travis." He pointed to the bench press station. "Best way I've ever found to relieve stress." His smile quirked up on one side. I thought back to the enormous amount of weight I saw him move on a daily basis and thought, Must be one seriously stressful job.

We chatted momentarily. I put back the green ball and switched to one of the larger orange ones. He started his bench presses, and I started mine.

It wasn't until after the workout that the full import of our conversation reached me. He - the prototypical masculine gym inhabitant - had treated me (me!) as an equal. Not as a gym bunny fluffing around with the light weights, or someone who was there for show. Someone who was there for the same reason he was: to work hard, build muscles, see results.

* * * * *

I've never been athletic. I was the reporter and the photographer at high school sports events, and dearly loved that niche; the combination of my weight and my lack of height just made it easier for me to gravitate to nonsporting roles. I assumed myself neither swift nor strong, and whether the world likes to admit it or not, many people who are far shorter than the norm find many sports to be unmitigated forms of misery.

(For all of you who, in a volleyball game, ever looked at the rotation pattern and said, "Oh, look, we've got someone short coming up. Everyone, spike the ball at her, because she can't retaliate" - I hate you. I was that girl, and I loathed you because your thoughts showed on your face.)

But I'm learning something. Some of my assumptions are wrong. I have no idea if I'm swift or not; that's something I'll try to find out once I've lost more weight. I don't have to wait until I'm thinner to know that I'm strong, though. I came home today and told Jeff that I'm five pounds off from one of my mini-goals: bench-pressing a hundred pounds (45-pound bar plus 55 pounds of plates).

A couple of months ago, Jody promised me that I would eventually come to love the solitary struggle of weightlifting, and that I would come to understand the drive to treat each weight, each machine, like a personal enemy. A list of enemies to be vanquished, one at a time. He told me that once I understood that drive, there would be no going back for me; in gym life, you choose to be either a bunny or a rat. Bunnies look cute. Rats sweat. Both glory in their choice, and can't understand how anyone would make any other choice.

Strength is addicting. I'd understood this intellectually for some time, but got a full taste of its reality when we cleaned out the garage this past weekend. Stored in the garage are several boxes of bricks that we once used for a brick-and-board bookshelf, but which now lie unused. I moved the bricks around in the garage several years ago, and remembered that the next day, I paid mightily for my struggles with many aches and pains.

This past weekend, I picked the bricks up, moved them to where they needed to be, and that was that. It was still work - mind you, these were boxes of bricks, not boxes of floaty happy feathers - but once it was done, it was over. No pain, no angry muscles, nothing. Just a job done, and a body untaxed.

* * * * *

I am a woman who is playing around in what is, to some degree, still very much a man's world. As my technique has improved, and my weights increased, I've noticed that I've begun to melt into the background of the gym. I'm just another person lifting weights. I don't get asked if I need help 'understanding the machines,' because I clearly don't need it.

I may have Scarlett's accent, but I am not her descendant. I see many of them on the machines, many of them far better-looking and better-dressed than me, doing endless useless repetitions with tiny weights. It's hard to contain my amusement. I - the stereotypical last-picked person for every team for most of her life - might just have the last laugh after all.