Exercising my rights Who says I actually have to use my home-gym equipment? BY ALAN OLIFSON

On January 15, the US Department of Health came out with its revised dietary guidelines. Among them is a recommendation to exercise 30 to 60 minutes daily; if you want to lose weight, the number jumps to 90.

In related news, on January 14, I sold my Total Gym 1000 on eBay.

For those of you not up on the latest in infomercial home-fitness equipment, the Total Gym 1000 is a revolutionary system endorsed by both Chuck Norris and Christie Brinkley (Billy Joel’s stance remains unclear).

Some people might find it disheartening to put their exercise equipment up for auction, feeling it’s an admission of defeat. Like selling off an unfinished puzzle: "Here, I give up, you have fun." But I grew up with home-gym equipment, so I knew exactly what I was getting into when I bought the Total Gym 1000.

Ever since I can remember, my parents have had some kind of exercise device in their bedroom that they used for hanging clothes. First there was the stationary bike. Then came a cheap-imitation StairMaster — basically two metal planks held together by a fan belt (or, more accurately, what I imagine a fan belt to look like). And finally, there was the king of ’80s home fitness: the NordicTrack, its "patented flywheel" a godsend for drying sweaters.

Each piece of hope-turned-clothes-rack sat at the foot of my parents’ bed, facing the spare TV — the same TV I would use when they insisted on watching Murder, She Wrote downstairs. (I personally preferred the bike because I could sit on it and eat cereal while enjoying Growing Pains. The NordicTrack was fun to balance on, but too unstable, so I’d spill milk.)

The point is, when I bought the Total Gym 1000 — though excited about its unique pulley-and-glide system, which would allow me to use my "own body weight as resistance against the consistent pull of gravity" — deep down in my heart of hearts, I knew what I’d use most was its ability to fold up for easy storage.

But I bought it anyway. Because I am an optimist. Also because I don’t feel as if I’m taking action unless I’m spending money.

The truth is, the Total Gym 1000 was just another in a series of get-thin-quick schemes in which I’ve been involved. And by no means was it the most embarrassing — oh, no. When I was a 19-year-old college sophomore, I spent one academic quarter on the Jenny Craig weight-loss program. Top that.

In my freshman year, I drank five days a week, ate a post-dinner pizza every night, and jogged twice — about as effective as spitting on a forest fire. By the end of the year, I had managed to gain more than 20 pounds.

I went to UC Santa Barbara, where taking off your shirt was almost a required course. Some people might just have eaten healthier and exercised more. Not me; I needed a plan. Also, I needed to buy something. That’s how I work. Jenny Craig was down the street and taking credit cards.

In a way, it was a college boy’s dream. I’d get a week’s supply of prepackaged food for every meal, thereby eliminating two of my least favorite activities: cooking and thinking. In another way, it was a college boy’s nightmare, because every package said "Jenny Craig" in the largest font allowed by the FDA. My roommates were in heaven. Hiding Alan’s diet food became a favorite pastime. (But since alcohol was verboten on Jenny Craig, I had plenty of time to plot revenge. They’d get drunk and hide my food; I’d wait until they passed out and hide them.)

At Jenny Craig, I also was supposed to go to meetings. Yeah, me and a bunch of middle-aged women sitting around, lending support and discussing what triggered our eating binges. Oddly, I seemed to be alone with "hangovers and the munchies," so I started skipping the meetings.

But the plan worked. I lost 25 pounds in a 10-week burst of willpower.

Ever since, I’ve embraced various health crazes with unbridled optimism. If I can stay on Jenny Craig for an entire college quarter, I can do anything.

Not that I’ve really been overweight since, but I have moments that throw me back into the ever-waiting arms of fad diets — for example, when a job provided free body-fat testing as part of its employee health plan. The guys in my department decided to make a competition out of it. (The things we do to entertain ourselves in cubicle land.) In a cruel twist of fate, however, every guy in my department was either gay or Asian. The lone straight Jew was the only one measuring in the double digits.

That’s right about when I bought the Total Gym 1000.

But selling it on eBay was cathartic. I am breaking the habit of spending money to get in shape. I know what I need to do: eat less, exercise more. Simple. And if I can’t get up five minutes earlier to do push-ups, it’s not just because I’m lacking the right equipment.

Though I did check out the Total Gym Web site while writing this — just, you know, to steal some descriptions. Were you aware that there now is a Total Gym 26000? That’s 26 times better than my Total Gym 1000. Easier to fold up, quicker to switch between exercises. This might be what I need to drop that body-fat percentage. I wouldn’t have to get up early to go to the gym, I could just hop out of bed ...

Alan Olifson, who no longer has any place to hang his clothes, can be found at alan@olifson.com