Our tentative plan for my visit to the Air Force base had been for me to drive Katrina to work, drop her off, and then tool around in her car for the day. But at 7:00AM when the time came to actually implement this plan, I drowsily mumbled, "How far is it? 6 miles? Never mind, I'll bike over later. . ." Thus I bought myself a lazy morning with coffee and my laptop before setting out.

It turned out Christina would be free at lunchtime, so she picked me up in her shiny red Corvette, whisked me off to lunch at a Greek restaurant near the base, got me a visitor pass, gave me a quick tour, then dropped me off at the library. I hung out there for a bit, and when I left to take a walk and look around, the national anthem was playing over the loudspeakers and everyone outside was frozen in their tracks and saluting the flag. I'm sure this is totally routine for everyone on the base, but I found it a striking and powerfully reverent moment.

I'd never been to any kind of military base before so I had no idea what to expect. Generally, it reminded me of a very spartan college campus: no stately old trees, or church spires, or Corinthian columns, just boxy nondescript buildings, planes on display here and there, and lots of flags. I headed over to where all the planes were, some neatly arranged in rows in a parking lot sort of thing, others being worked on in the garage, and others taking off or zipping around in formation overhead.

I was generally impressed with the fitness culture of the military. Even people with desk jobs are expected to stay in shape, and everywhere on the base people were out doing pushups, situps, chinups and the like. As I made my way back to the fitness center, where Christina had invited me to a Zumba class, the roads were blocked off for people to do their daily running of who-knows-how-many miles. I was thinking there should be some way of instilling this culture in regular civilian life. Maybe you should get a higher salary or tax breaks if you can pass a fitness test.

Christina and a few of her friends were already there, waiting for the class to start, so I joined them as they chatted about their workout regimens, marathon training, and other amazing feats of physical fitness. There's always part of me that feels a bit insecure around such awesome, buff, athletic women. Just as that part kicked in and started thinking, "Well, I may not be in the best shape of all time, but I've got other things going for me," Becky, one of Christina's friends who'd been at brunch the day before, said, as if to top all the other workout programs and training regimens, "Well, she's biking 50 miles a day." It took me a moment to realize she was talking about me.

Am I becoming. . . or have I become. . . do I dare even say it. . . athletic? To say I was never a gifted athlete is an understatement. I was the daydreamy little league right fielder who would stare at dandelions while softballs went sailing past. My greatest moment in my short-lived cross-country career was when I once finished ahead of somebody instead of dead last. I, the salutatorian of my high school class, almost didn't graduate due to many skipped gym classes (which were a state requirement). It was always easier, and more comfortable, to make NOT being athletic part of my very identity rather than to actually work on it. Maybe it's time for that to change. Maybe it's time to embrace my inner athlete.

I can't say my inner athlete quite got the hang of Zumba on the first attempt, but it was definitely a lot of fun. It's fast, complicated, and a little trashy—many of the dance moves reminded me of the kind the dirty old grandpa teaches Olive for her beauty pageant dance in Little Miss Sunshine, and pretty much all of them involve having fine motor control over one's butt muscles. I was in awe of the teacher's insane booty-shaking the way I'm in awe of somone who can make their ears wiggle. There was actually an entire sequence that involved standing still and clenching your butt muscles in rhythm. Just as I'd coordinate the necessary neuron pathways to make that happen, the instructor would launch into some other sequence of shaking, thrusting, or lunging.

I admit I was relieved when the instructor put on the cool-down music, only because I was starting to become concerned for the state of my glutes the next day: I envisioned them giving out just as I tried to climb a hill. I'd be shaking my fist at the sky, crying, "It was the Zumba. The Zuuumbaaaahh!"