There’s a change happening deep down inside me, and I have no intention of stopping it. The treadmills and the weight machines, the guilt and the pride, they’re all turning me into (dun, dun, dun), a “gym person.”

You know my type – we use any excuse to mention the gym in conversation, we brag about how long we’ve worked out this week, and we’re always just a little too cheery.

I never used to be like this, I swear. Six months ago, I could’ve counted all the times in my life that I’d worked out on one hand, and that was fine with me.

When I had been to a gym, I gave it minimal effort. I tried using the weights, but after a few repetitions (or “reps,” as we gym people call them), I felt satisfied that I had tried and lost interest in the exercise.

Then, in December, I slowly began changing my ways. I moved into a new apartment on my own (which you’d know if you were keeping up with these columns) and the funds were tight.

I only had money for the essentials, so I decided to purchase a gym membership in lieu of cable television. Once the third season of “Nip/Tuck” ended, I had no need for the TV anyway.

I’ve always been known for making intelligent and responsible decisions, like putting my health in front of my desire to keep up with “General Hospital” and – well, okay, maybe this was a first for me in the realm of responsible decisions, but you’re impressed, aren’t you?

Gradually, my love for the gym began to grow (and it showed through my pants).

At first, I went with friends who were already gym people, so that they could introduce me to new and different machines.

Then, I moved on from the gym friends who had different schedules than mine and just grew closer to the machines.

By now, the machines and I have developed quite the relationship. It’s kind of like “1984,” but with a happier ending.

Once I started going to the gym, I fell into a cycle of guilt that has kept me coming back. Sure, that sounds negative, but if guilt makes my ass look good, I’ll take it.

See, at first, I didn’t care too much about working out, but I paid so much for the membership that I didn’t want to feel like I had wasted my money.

After I began exercising regularly, I’d feel guilty when I missed workouts. Not like the you-missed-your-mom’s-birthday kind of guilt or anything, but just some you-missed-class-again guilt.

You know, just enough remorse to make me work out twice as hard the next day.

The best part is that the gym eradicates my biggest guilt: Taco Bell.

I want a cheesy gordita crunch? Well gosh darn it, I’m going to have a cheesy, fatty, grease-filled gordita crunch!

I can do that sort of thing, you know ?” because I’m a gym person.