I’m laid out on a concrete curb at the city park like a bag lady after a three-day drunk.

A couple of flawlessly-dressed speed walkers streak by, eying me with disgust and pity.

“Tsk tsk, Bless Her Heart,” says the (obviously) nicer of the two.

“Can’t. Move.”  I murmur to the perfectly toned butts now well out of hearing range.

I am the only one to blame for my predicament, although a week ago it seemed perfectly rational, admirable even, to sign on for the “Fight for Air Climb” in Atlanta.

My Mom was diagnosed with lung cancer this year. Feeling helpless, I came upon a flyer from the American Lung Association for a fundraiser.  Climb 52 flights of stairs to raise money? Cake. Hell, I consider myself pretty athletic for an “over-50” woman.  I walk my dogs every day, and on weekends my husband and I either hike in the mountains or ride our bikes to the local pub.  Why, I even have a treadmill and rowing machine in my attic!

So today I decide to check out the “training” class that the Lung Association has graciously offered all participants. Feeling smug, I decide to walk the mile to the train station where I’ll “be green” and commute to Resolution Fitness to meet my competition.  It’s cold, so I wear my husband’s fleece sweatpants and my puffy down jacket. I don my purple “Life Is Good” cap over dirty hair.

After passing through the lobby of the Ritz Carlton, I am greeted by a perky brunette in leggings and a tank-top.

“Velcome!”  Sexy Trainer Girl greets me in an unknown but fetching accent. “Vou can change in zee Ladies locker-room!”

Change?

Stepping inside the most luxurious changing room I have ever witnessed (and that is exactly two), I am greeted by attractive young athletes in appropriate workout wear.

As we assemble in the gym, we are met by four muscular men in similar gear.

After two minutes on the treadmill at a 15-percent incline, I start to get concerned.  20 minutes later, I am glad I came to this challenging workout. Now for some lunch and a hot bath.

“Now vee climb zee stairs!” STG proclaims. “To zee floor serty-five!”

“What was that?” I ask the cute, young jock beside me.

“Thirty-five floors, then down backwards.”

By floor ten I’m hurting. By floor twenty, my throat is a desert and my heart beats at 723 beats-per-minute. I soldier on, unwilling to admit defeat.

On the descent, my legs have turned into Gumby, without the wire. Finishing last, I am corralled into the workout room to cool down with some yoga. I’ve lost my hat and sweat streams from my body like Niagra Falls.

Warning: Don’t use your Neti Pot prior to bending over.

When the class is over I notice that not only have I left a quart of salty snot and sweat on the floor, but also clumps of dirt from my sneakers.

“Ve’ll see vou next veek!”  STG quips while I try to clean up what is now just smeared mud.

“Yeah, great. Can’t wait.” I mumble with the enthusiasm of a sloth.

Following my “rest” at the park, I crawl in the front door, deflated, but not defeated. Tomorrow I go to Target for some cute workout wear.