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I go to classes. If someone isn’t standing in front of me, barking out reps and making sure I do them, it’s not going to get done. That’s something I know about myself. As much as I admire those sneakered, self-motivated New Yorkers bounding through Manhattan at a brisk jog all hours of the day and night, I’m just never going to be one.
And I stand in the front. You try slacking off when you’re directly in the instructor’s line of sight.
I think of the money. The brilliant thing about belonging to a gym, as opposed to those €30 boutique spin classes so many of my friends adore, is that since you’ve already paid, it gets cheaper every time you go. That’s amazing! If I go to one class in a month, it’s a €90 class. Two, they’re each €45. Nine classes? At nine, which works out to fewer than three times a week, I’m paying only $10 per class.
I talk about going to the gym incessantly. If everyone in my office knows I plan to go, I have to keep my word. “It’s like peer pressure!” my coworker exclaimed in dismay after the third time that day I checked to see if she was coming with me to the gym. “It’s OK,” I reassured her. “I’m fine with that.”
I tell myself going to the gym is my reward. There’s no better choice I could be making at that moment for my health and well-being. It’s a breath of fresh superiority.
I leave my gym bag at the office. This is decidedly trickier if you’re the type to work out before and after work, but I haven’t yet reached that level of lunacy. As someone who exclusively exercises at night, I bring my gym bag home, empty it, refill it, and bring it to work the next day, whether I’m planning to go to the gym or not. On the weekend, I just bring it home and then back on Monday morning. This way, I’m never caught without runners and I get an arm workout during my commute.
I wrangle an escort. To make sure I’m shamed into actually arriving at the gym instead of being segued by an exit strategy, I do my best to press co-workers into escort service. “We don’t even have to work out together! Let’s just walk over together!” (Oh man, I’m the worst.)
I tell myself I can leave mid-class. I say it, but I never do it. Once I’m there, in my gym clothes, sneakers strapped on, in a prime front-row spot, you can bet I’m not leaving. It’s not like I’m doing a four-hour CrossFit workout or running a marathon; it’s a 45-minute class, and I can do pretty much anything for 45 minutes. By the time I think of leaving, it’s over.
How do you motivate yourself to get to the gym?