Getting down to bidness

I’ve finally given up on the idea that watching Biggest Loser and occasionally feeling guilty about the apple fritter I’ve just eaten are likely to yield the weight loss for which I yearn.  I know, sounds like it should have worked, yes? But several scales – including the calibrated one at the doc’s office – claim that my gross tonnage remains, well, gross.

I spend a lot of time at the gym these days.  I’d forgotten how much I enjoy it.

I pretend I’m watching the TV mounted on the treadmill. Of course, I’m not really. And no, I’m not watching all the third-my-age hard bodies strolling back and forth in front of my machine. Well, not only the hard bodies, anyway.

The gym, especially after the holidays when max guilt herds the tubbies in for at least a month or so, is a parade of characters. The muscle men and the ponytail-and-spandex crowd seem to have retreated off stage for the moment, leaving behind basically two demographics: the truly dedicated who are here year round come what may and the newly, temporarily motivated.

Some of the temporarily motivated will tail off by mid-February but some will catch the health bug and find a new home there. I try to figure out who will make the cut but since only time will prove I’m not myself one of the temps, I try to be very gentle in my calculations.

Truth is, I hope we all make it. Me, the guy with the gut his tee won’t quite cover, the mom who’s never lost the baby weight, the young guy who can’t get over 2.0 on the treadmill and the young gal with the great smile and the lollipop butt. I’d love to report to you in a couple years that my buddies and I from the Class of New Years 2013 are the healthy veterans welcoming a new crop of frantic hopefuls.

Meanwhile, you truly can observe all sorts of characters at the gym. It’s a fun place. It’ll be more fun when I no longer carry the equivalent of a bag of Ready Mix with me as I work my way through the machines.

Wish me luck.

No, screw that, wish me discipline.