Every January, millions of people take out annual membership of gyms they’ll rarely visit, hoping to achieve a svelte version of themselves that in reality they’ll never see again.
Great for the gym industry, which gets its money without having to mop up the missing customer’s sweat, but not so good for the hopeful tubbies, who get fatter, unhealthier, and poorer, too.
I have a dear friend who, being a doctor, knew better than most he needed to lose weight, but who visited the City gym he’d joined no more than half a dozen times a year.
My friend could have had a cheap day away in Paris for the price of day’s attendance at his gym at that rate! Worse, he kept this membership rolling for nearly a decade.
My friend is psychologist, so he really should have known better. But like most of us, he’s better at seeing the problems in other people than himself. He didn’t appreciate he was buying off his good intentions with his gym membership, making it less likely he’d lose weight by joining the gym than if he’d never signed up at all.
Some people love gyms: The shine of well-buffed biceps, the smell of sticky Lycra, the possibility of an illicit affair that starts with a mutual dash for the one spinning machine.
I hate gyms, and only visit the ones in high-end hotels when the alternative is work. And yet here I am, the same weight I was two decades ago when I was still at university and being regularly asked for ‘my secret’ to staying thin.
Since I’ve got a blog, I’ve no excuse not to share my thoughts with my dear but differently weighted readers. Read on, and you’ll never have an excuse again.
