SOMEHOW I finished modeling classes without hating my body. That charm lasted till last year.

For no reason I can tell, my mom enrolled 13-year-old me in classes at a local talent agency.

I thought acting was fun and regularly played Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer's little sister or the like in community theater and school plays. But surely no one thought I would turn into a star. I'm 5feet tall, I've never displayed much grace and my hammish tendencies display more enthusiasm than art.

But my mother said so, and I got head shots. Every Wednesday night for weeks, I sat in a room with 20 other hopefuls and learned the tools of the trade. For example, the catwalk stride: You put one foot directly in front of the other, causing your butt to sway. Later, watching the short-lived "Melrose Place" spinoff "Models, Inc.," I saw "Julie" do an exaggerated version. Each foot actually crossed over into the path of the opposite hip. This caused each half of her rear to point nearly sideways. Oh, how I laughed.

If they let me in, they must have let anyone in; I was like a sparrow taking swimming lessons. Of the fame-seeking little boys and girls in that room, earnestly practicing our cold-reading skills on pages from sitcom and "90210" scripts, how many actually got something out of it? I recall only a vague annoyance at the scattershot training and a miraculously

unscathed body image.

But I had a child's metabolism then and I had PE class every day, so I was skinny through no effort of my own. Now I'm a bit overweight, because I have a desk job and a fantastic cook of a husband. I'm not ugly and not obese, and I can walk for miles without tiring. Still, my stamina, immune system and general health could use a lighter load. And a woman of South Asian descent with a family history of diabetes and heart disease doesn't need many reminders to watch her weight — I got one from a doctor in the fall.

So I am starting to exercise on my own, feeling foolish and tentative every step of the way. In those acting classes, when I didn't care what other people thought, I'd be fine trying and failing in public. But now I stay away from gyms and instead flail to aerobics shows on cable TV. My mom and dad suggest doing yoga, specifically tens of sun salutations every morning, but somehow it's easier to force motion when someone is barking orders at me.

The Lifetime channel shows "Denise Austin's Daily Workout" three times a week. Riddle me that, Batman. She's a Mr. Rogers-style workout coach, always encouraging. She was born in 1957, yet looks younger than I do. Not just her body, but her face looks about 20 years old. What if I'm valiantly imitating a mutant?

She tells us what exercise to continue doing during the commercial breaks, thus ensuring a full 30-minute workout. This means I hop, punch and suffer through ads for Enablex (bladder control meds), Tamiflu, Idaho potatoes and Lifetime Original Movies. What's worse, I am more susceptible to these ads because the exercise distracts me. The other day, I found myself arguing the possible benefits of those Glade smell-and-light shows with my husband.

Tip to other exercise show hosts: A man I don't know braying "Thank you for trusting me with your body," will make me edge away nervously. Also, armies of nameless dancer-clones intimidate me.

It's tough to know whether I'm doing this for me. My body image is more complicated here in New York than it was in NorCal, land of bikram yoga and fat acceptance. I don't want to care about Cosmo and Maxim, but what if they care about me? Maybe I think about my appearance more now because I've been so busy with work and school. Maybe I've been distracted, so I'm more vulnerable to the propaganda.

A few weeks ago, I took a deep breath and wore a revealing costume to a Purim party. An acquaintance there mentioned he had trouble relaxing enough to go to sleep. I stripped down to the sports bra and shorts I was wearing underneath and showed him some stretching poses. He followed along. I was a model after all, and my unattractive midriff didn't

stop me.

Sumana Harihareswara writes for Bay Area Living each week. You can write to her at sumana@crummy.com.

Of the fame-seeking little boys and girls in that room, earnestly practicing our cold-reading skills on pages from sitcom and "90210" scripts, how many actually got something out of it? I recall only a vague annoyance at the scattershot training

and a miraculously unscathed body image.