You’d have to be a shut-in not to notice. In Seattle, that isn’t altogether uncommon, but take note: summer is approaching.

Skin is appearing in the quad. Thank the stars, the skirts are back! Homers, hole-in-ones and outdoor hoops are all starting to permeate our gray little minds.

For me, I’ve realized a little too late that my fat, whiter-than-this-newsprint-ass is out of shape. Time is of the essence. What can a 20-something, washed up, ex-high-school-athlete-turned-Myspace-addict do? Well, not a damn thing.

Well, maybe that’s not true. Sure, there aren’t any coaches sporting nut-hugger shorts crawling down the throats of those of us who are unfortunate — or possibly fortunate — enough to no longer play organized sports, but there is something that can motivate us. Exercise feels freaking great!

Exclamation points and cheesy warm and fuzzy sentiments aside — for sports enthusiasts, is there anything better than the feeling you get from a sweat-filled hour or two of physical activity?

If you said “yes,” you’re probably just a fan, which is fine. Go ahead. Sit there in your cave and watch the Mariners lose, to everyone. It’s totally fine by me if you would rather TiVo golf tournaments while you pack on the pounds from tater chips and delivery than actually do something. As a matter-of-fact, I’m willing to bet most people who are into sports in their early days probably do turn into these mindless blobs of lard that scarcely venture past their apartment security doors, instead spending the days drooling over the meaningless commentary that is spewed daily from columnists like myself (better-paid and well-known columnists like myself). Television shows like ESPN’s Pardon the Interruption and Rome is Burning love you, lazy chumps.

Anyway, the other half of you are itching for action about now right? Well, what to do, what to do?

Me? I’m in love with my iPod — sing that to T-Pain’s “I’m in Love With a Stripper,” it’s fun. But, seriously, I really did. I used to see the infamous white cords coming from ears on campus and absolutely despise the total lack of communication they promote. Now, the damned piece of hip technology pushes me on my trek to shed my more-than-adequate love handles.

What better way to sweat in the sunshine than running for hours on trails, roads, sidewalks, etc.? What better way to forget that your out-of-shape booty shouldn’t be attempting said jaunts? The music blasts — for me. that is a mix of hip-hop (underground and mainstream) and some bumping techno beats — and I forget that it feels like my legs are falling off.

More than once this young spring, I’ve been near the end of my run — three miles, if you’re curious — and skipped past the rap on my second-gen shuffle to get to the relentless trance, house and jungle music in order to make the finish line.

Now, running is, of course, boring as all hell — probably more boring than watching said stinky home baseball team — but that feeling! The sweat pouring, the heart pounding, the competition within –— all are amazing.

There’s always Frisbee, Frisbee golf, golf, outdoor hoops, lawn darts and horseshoes — anything you can do outside can be turned into exercise — so get off the couch and shut off your TVs. Your pasty skin pleads with you, as does your heart.

Point being, it’s summer time, and you love sports. Love yourself and the sun as well. Until they have a way to plug in an iPod and get an automatic workout, you don’t have any choice: call for a spatula and get your butt off the couch!

Reach columnist Sam Cameron at sports@thedaily.washington.edu.