Let’s not beat around the bush here. My new thing today was Working Out With Richard Simmons.

I’ll give you a minute to let that sink in.

Yup.

My friend Judy had heard that when Richard Simmons was in town, he held regular workouts at his Beverly Hills studio. Would I like to come along and work out with Richard Simmons, she asked? Yes, I replied. Yes, I would.

I arrived a little early, in a T-shirt from my mustaches for kids campaign, and a pair of shorts I had to dig out from under the bed. There was a small waiting room packed with women, each clutching their water bottles. I was given a form to fill out and paid my twelve bucks. As I was assuring this piece of paper that there was nothing wrong with with my heart, my lungs, or any other vital body parts, the double doors suddenly flew open with all the drama of a Greta Garbo entrance. Immediately every woman in the waiting room lept to her feet and shrieked in unison, some natural biological instinct took over and they rushed into the workout room, lured by the sounds of upbeat 80s pop hits and Richard Simmons yelling, “Get in here! Get in here now!”

I quickly filled out the rest of the form (liver - fine, toes - fine, firstborn child - take him, I gotta get in there) and rushed inside.

First thing I noticed was that there were 50 or 60 women in there - and maybe three guys. One older gentleman was dressed to impress - pink pants, pink shirt, pink hat and pink suspenders - all of which he shed soon after the workout began. But nobody could possibly upstage Richard Simmons, who had on his signature short-shorts and a tank-top, bedazzled in big san serif letters with the word SWEAT.

The adrenaline of being part of a screaming mob is not to be underestimated. As the music flowed Richard Simmons immediately got everybody moving, and suddenly I was joining dozens of Beverly Hills housewives in stepping and thrusting, pointing and flexing.

Richard Simmons is pure energy. I do not mean this in a Star Trek, being-from-another dimension way. I mean the dude does not stop. He runs and shouts and cajoles and prances and dances, all with the energy of a yippy lap-dog on speed. He’s also as gay as a tree full of monkeys wearing party hats. But with his attitude, his unrelenting positiveness, and his pure love of what he’s doing, it’s kind of impossible to not get wrapped up in it all. I’ll admit it. I was having fun.

A few minutes later, Richard Simmons had us all in a circle, each of us gamely dancing as best we could in our limited space. He picked a couple of housewives from the crowd and brought them into the middle. It was a like an gay white aerobics version of You Got Served. Only nobody got served - he sent each woman off with encouragement and applause. And then suddenly, he was taking my hand.

If you are asked to dance by Richard Simmons, then dammit, you dance. I went into the middle to strut my stuff as best as my lanky, straight, white-boy body could. It seemed to go well. An old lady stopped me after the class to tell me I was “very good”, so I was a hit with the 50+ set.

Except, the thing is, the old ladies weren’t the only people interested in me. Richard Simmons had taken a liking to me too.

As we got out of the circle and back to the aerobics, he called out to the crowd, “I love you!” I looked up, assuming he was addressing the group as a whole, but no, he was looking at me. “I love you, too!” I replied. Richard Simmons locked eyes with me. “I love you!” he said again. “I love you too…” I said, once again, and then feeling it needed something else, I added, “…Richard Simmons!”

I have my witnesses. Richard Simmons told me he loved me five or six times during the course of the one-hour class. Me, and only me. I don’t think he was actually flirting with me. Well, maybe he was, a little. But mostly I think he saw an awkward out-of-shape guy trying his best, and wanted to encourage me somehow.

Richard Simmons is a bit bitchier than he seems on television. At once point, during Love Shack, he turned down the music on the stereo expecting everybody to sing along. Nobody did and he yelled, “If I don’t hear you singing along next time, I swear to God, I’ll make you take off your shirts and you’ll be working out in your bras!” Later, he told us if we didn’t do an particular move correctly, he’d “shut all the doors and we’d play Anne Frank.” He also stood in front of a woman he felt was being particularly lazy and mimed being comatose - eyes rolled back and along, thin stream of drool from his mouth to his bedazzled tank-top.

But it was all taken in the campy, over-the-top spirit that makes Richard Simmons so Richard Simmonsy. Everybody was having a great time. Sweating, grunting, sore, but having a good time. I abhor physical activity like nature abhors a vacuum, but even I was enjoying myself.

As we were all on mats doing some sort of Ab-terrorizing movements, Richard Simmons singled me out again. “This guy,” he said to the crowd, “I love this guy.” He turned to me. “Who dressed you this morning?”

“Well, I did.” I said, “Does it show?”

Richard Simmons didn’t seem to acknowledge my answer, and barreled ahead. “He looks like one of those kids from that cartoon… what’s that cartoon where those nasty little kids are so rude to each other?”

“South Park!” somebody called.

“Yeah, you look like one of those mean little kids from South Park.” He shuddered for effect. Then he again told me he loved me again, and continued with the workout.

After an hours of prancing to the music, weight work and the love/hate affection of Richard Simmons, he sat us all down to give his inspirational speech. It was generally about how we all had to find our own strengths and work with them. But Richard Simmons used his own special metaphor to describe it.

“When God was making us, he had this big mixing bowl,” Richard Simmons explained solemnly. “And God filled it up with…” Here, Richard Simmons struggled to find the right words. “…like, Kool-Aid powder or something. And then god sprinkled a little bit on each of us, and that’s what makes us special. Maybe he made you a writer - go write. Maybe he made you good at math or business. You’ve got to follow that dream.”

The gospel according to Richard Simmons: Go forth, and do what God’s Kool-Aid Powder has given you the ability to do.

When it was over, Richard Simmons was surrounded by fans, getting autographs and photos. I held back for a bit and waited me turn. Finally, he turned and looked at me.

“Oh, this guy! I love this guy. This guy’s a genius… what do you do?”

“Well, Richard Simmons,” I said, “I’m actually a writer. I write for a cartoon show sorta like South Park.”

“Oh, my god, don’t put me in a cartoon! Don’t you dare put me a in cartoon!” he said, playfully slapping at me, and then hugged my midsection like a koala on a eucalyptus tree as we took a photo.

It is easy to make fun of Richard Simmons - a feat made possible by the man himself, he of the spangled shirts and short-shorts, the frizzy hair and over-the-top personality. But I will say this: He clearly loves what he’s doing, he has a ball doing it, and is pretty adept at transferring that enthusiasm to his students. Everybody wanted to work hard for Richard Simmons. He’s Richard Simmons, after all.

As I was leaving, he was sitting with some ladies, talking. He called out to me, “Don’t you dare put me in a cartoon!” he said, and then ominously continued, “I know where you live!”

So, for the record, I’d like to reiterate: I think Richard Simmons is great, and in no way do I have any plans to put him in cartoon. Please, Richard Simmons. Let me be.