I received an invitation in the mail one evening that peaked my curiosity. It was printed on shiny cardstock with white and purple lettering. In the upper left-hand corner was the image of a barbell. For only 10 cents and no long-term commitment, I too could be a member of a health club. The $10-a-month fee was so slim that even if I never actually used the membership, I wouldn’t have to feel guilty. I could say I belonged to the club and not actually participate. If one hates to exercise, that is a cool incentive.
For many years I thought only weirdoes joined a health club. This stems from an experience I had with joining a gym when I was 20 years old. I signed up for the $29 a month “special” because a friend told me “we” were fat and needed to lose weight. A month in, my friend and I got into a fight and stopped speaking to each other, but since I signed a contract, I kept going.
A totally buff, beach-bodied dude was assigned to teach me how to use to the machines, but since I was significantly overweight and hated exercise more than dangling off a cliff in my car, I was sorely intimidated. He was peppy. I was passive. He tried to motivate me, but the only form of physical movement I was interested in was escaping out the back door. Then I had a car accident, totaled my vehicle and stopped paying the fee. They sent me to collections and I developed an intense hatred for “gym rats”.
When I made the decision to live a healthy lifestyle, my attitude towards health clubs did not change. I lost 140 pounds by eliminating sugar, fast food and soda from my diet. For exercise I walked around the block. The initial exercise may not have burned a lot of calories, but it held me accountable to my food choices every day. As I lost weight, I fell in love with riding my bike and incrementally added other outdoor activities. I also purchased weights and a yoga mat, I grabbed exercise videos for use in my living room, but never once did I consider going to a health club. I was content to suffer through my “torture” routines in the confines of my private home where no one could hear or see me cry.
I stared at the invitation that had inconspicuously arrived in my mailbox. Normally I would just throw it away, but one of my friends recently joined that particular club. She bragged to me about the massage table that comes with a membership. I was intrigued. So I visited the website.
As I looked through the pictures, I saw the long line of treadmills and shuddered. I pondered what 50 sweaty bodies in one room smells like and wondered what kind of disinfectant they use to remove the funk of the previous exercise enthusiast. Then I remembered Annabelle, my trusty workout companion. My boxer dog not only runs with me but helps with strength training by placing her ball on my back while I’m doing planks. We punish her “evil monkey” while I punish my body and somehow that makes it easier. How would she feel if she saw me trotting off to the gym? Imagine her sad face staring at me out of the window as I cheat on her with some unknown entity.
I suppose health clubs are a perfectly respectable means to an end, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t fit in there. Besides, I like my creaky elliptical machine. I know the rust spots are from my sweat and not from some beach body with a peppy attitude. And honestly, I like my belly jiggly during step aerobics—not all spandexed up so I can look cute. I enjoy the autonomy of breaking out into silly songs (like Larry) when I’m frustrated with my workout and the freedom to cry when I’m sad about sad things. But most importantly, I know I don’t need to spend the money to join a health club to get—or stay—in shape. My home gym may not have a massage table, but I do have a bathtub and a bag of Epsom salts. And that’s basically the same thing.
Maybe one day I’ll join a health club. Right after I hone my escape skills by hanging off a cliff in my car.
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