When I was in middle school, our gym teacher used to make us run a mile through the park. Yes, every dog walker and old person on the Upper West Side of Manhattan who happened to be in the park at that moment witnessed our spastic jogs.

This long run was the climax of the fitness unit of our physical education curriculum, which included old favorites like the sit and reach, vertical jump, and many other activities that weed out the future all-stars from the regular kids. Participation, a.k.a. torture, was mandatory for everyone. That is, for everyone except for me.

Every time we were brought to the park, I had conveniently forgotten my inhaler. It was so easy to explain that I had exercise-induced asthma, which just happened to bar me from the single most mortifying experience of my life.

This whole lying-to-get-out-of-anything-resembling-exercise shtick became somewhat of a pattern. Sure, I joined youth athletic teams at the behest of my parents, but it didn’t last.

No one wanted to see me running up and down the basketball court, and I certainly didn’t want to be there. Slowly but surely, I quit all of the groups I had been forced to join and never looked back. Sorry, Mom and Dad, but volleyball just wasn’t for me.

Now, I want you to know that it isn’t entirely my fault that I am averse to activity of any sort. First, I am Jewish. We as a people have many stereotypical attributes but athleticism is not counted amongst them. Try academics.

It is possible to count the number of Jewish baseball players on both hands (which is something that we do with pride as a tribe, I kid you not). But it is not just because I am Jewish that I am lazy and terrible at sports; that would hardly be a fair statement. There are Yids who do a damn good job with a golf club.

My siblings and I are all equally pathetic. My older brother simply gave up when he realized he ran like some sort of tormented animal; try as they did, our gym teachers could never get him off the bench for anything but badminton. My younger sister, on the other hand, lasted the longest, but still did not have the mental and physical strength to withstand Yeshiva League basketball.

I am not the prepubescent girl I once was. My metabolism has undeniably slowed. When I eat whatever I want, as I often do, the new weight magically appears.

Just a few years ago, I could put anything I desired in my mouth without fear of consequence. But now, I am afraid of the dreaded thunder thigh. Most girls are. And who wouldn’t be? I know I don’t want to be the rightful owner of the leg that ate the universe. But saying that you don’t want to be a fat-ass and actually doing something about it are two different things.

Momma and Poppa Doctoroff are fully aware of this fact.

My father is a binge-dieter, something I would not suggest. His most recent pursuit is the GM Diet, where he eats a different type of food each day of the week—and repeats as many times as is necessary. My mother takes a healthier route: portion control.

But neither just watches what he or she eats: They exercise. Since the middle of high school they have told me that “the habits you establish now will stay with you for the rest of your life. If you don’t start exercising now, it is going to be that much harder for you later.” As annoying as it is to hear them lecture me on something I would rather never do, I know now that they have a point.

I have tried making New Year’s resolutions. Failure. I have tried making pacts with my siblings. Failure. And coming to Yale has enhanced my interesting journey in self-control.

It is easy to eat Lucky Charms for every meal; in fact, it is more than easy, it is necessary. Late-night studying paves the way for Wenzels galore. There is no stopping the Yale food train.

But at the same time, I find myself surrounded by people who frequent the gym, inescapably located in every basement. “Want to run 30 miles with me?” “Don’t mind if I do.” So my college and my thighs have forced me to make a choice: the cereal that changes the color of milk, or Payne Whitney.

It is only now, when I start recognizing the potential for change, positive and negative, that I actually push myself to get on that elliptical and sweat until my face, unfortunately, looks like a tomato. Thus far, it’s not bundles of fun. But maybe the sad reality is that I’m too old to forget my inhaler. It’s time to do like my folks and face the mile run.