I was the last one to leave Stacy's house the next day and didn't question until much later in life why no one said good-bye to me. I was doing the walk of shame through the woods to my house, wearing my still-damp-from-the-night-before jeans, when I noticed how sore my calves were. What… a workout.

I wasn't home for an hour before I needed more. I vacillated between wanting to report a rape and feeling more alive than I ever had in my first three-quarters of a decade on earth. I told my mom I was turning in for the night.

"It's six o'clock, Chelsea."

"I know, but we stayed up really late and I am… wiped out," I told her, feigning a yawn, and then I pumped my arm the way one would do when signaling an eighteen-wheeler to blow its horn.

I ran upstairs, took off my clothes, and changed into a clean T-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. As I didn't yet have a lock on my door, I propped myself up against the wall next to my door so that I could avoid anyone walking in and seeing me humping myself.

Talk about elevating your heart rate! I felt as if Popeye's forearms had taken up residence in my calves. This was my first introduction to strength training, and it was unforgettable. If I kept this up, which at that point wasn't even open for discussion, it was clear that, due to the muscular development in my calves I soon would only be able to wear cutoffs.

With this kind of definition, it was inevitable that I would be approached for soccer, softball, and possibly even water polo. The fact that water polo wasn't a sport offered at any school wasn't an issue. After people saw what I was able to bring to the table physically, it would be clear that a team would be started, and probably a league. I began fantasizing about what coaches and recruiters would say to reel me in after I'd fake having interest in athletic pursuits.