I resolve to be a regular
Those New Year’s resolutions people are everywhere – on the treadmills, steppers, using barbells and resistance machines. Fitness centres are crawling with people determined (for now) to make good on promises to lose weight and get healthy.
“It’ll be better soon,” the woman next to me on the treadmill said last night, referring to the growing crowd around us. “By the end of the month, most of the New Year’s crowd will have given up and we’ll have more room.”
“Yeah, that’ll be nice,” I answered with a smile. Like everyone else at the gym, I don’t like waiting to sign in, waiting for a machine, waiting at the water fountain.
I looked around and could easily determine who the regulars were, with their buff bodies and the ease with which they adjusted settings on the various machines. The others often came with clipboards to record their workout and remember their planned routine. Sometimes they stared in wonderment at the weight resistance machines from the relative safety of the treadmill.
Then it occurred to me: when these regulars are cursing about the newcomers, the New Year’s crowd, they’re talking about me! While I myself was cursing the crowd and wanting the resolution people to go away, I neglected to acknowledge that I am one of them. I think it’s because I’ve been down this road before. Maybe a few times. I’m a newbie, for sure, but I’m different. I’m a repeat offender newbie.
I guess there’s a few of us around the gym this month. We probably aren’t as easy to spot and categorize as the regulars and the newbies. We know our way around the equipment, but we’re boom and bust exercisers. We jump on the bandwagon once or twice a year, go like gangbusters for a few weeks or a couple of months, then disappear. In the process, I’ve come to mistake myself for a regular at the gym.
But, as repeat offenders like to say, maybe this year will be different. For one thing, I’ve got a workout buddy this time. My 17-year-old daughter has become a fitness centre addict. Since she wants to go just about every day, and would rather not walk there (it’s odd how we’re willing to sweat for an hour on the treadmill but turn our noses at actually walking to the gym), she’s more likely than not to cajole me into going with her, and driving.
The buddy stuff ends as soon as we leave the locker room and my first-born darts away, speed-walking down the hall to the fitness centre. Apparently, it’s one thing for her to be seen getting out of a car with her mother, it’s quite another to be see actually going to the gym with me. So we go to our respective areas of the gym and pretend we don’t know each other (despite the fact that she’s a carbon copy of me, albeit without wrinkles and love handles).
I further boosted my chances of success this year by making a little wager with hubby. It’s related to losing a certain amount of weight over a certain amount of time. Given my quick start out the gate, I think I’ve got him scared.
With any luck, this time next year I’ll be able to groan at the arrival of the newbies with the voice of a regular regular, as opposed to a wannabe regular.
Week one of 2007 definitely got off to an enthusiastic start (as is the case with most of us resolutioners). I’ve been working out every day and even dusted off my old Weight Watchers guides (okay, I admit I have several copies of the Week 1 brochure). But alas, it ended with a thud. After cycling and running and sweating up a storm while consuming very little, I got on the scale last night. Turns out I’ve been pushing myself and depriving myself for one measly pound! There’s very little justice in this.
I was preparing to leave the locker room, feeling dejected, when I overheard a couple of women planning to hit Tim Horton’s for some treats after their workout. Now that’s a regime I can get into: drowning my sorrows in a sour cream glazed donut. If I’m going to work hard for nothing, I might as well do it with a smile on my face.
