The gym is a con that is reinforcing a dysfunctional relationship with our bodies. It’s time to ditch the dumbbells and rediscover other ways to stay healthy.
I first experienced the gym when I was 13. My PE teacher, Mr Johnson, was a huge man whose lifetime of training and operations had left him with no cartilage in his knees and a penchant for intimidating teenagers. During our ‘induction’, presumably to terrify us into obedience, he sat down at the leg press machine, ordered two students to stand on top of the stack of weights, and proceeded to lift the whole lot several times. The combined total would have been nearly 300kg, equivalent to three fully grown Giant Pandas. I was so impressed by this show of strength that I didn’t set foot inside a gym for another 10 years.
But don’t let me put you off. In fact, it’s unlikely to because more than 4.4 million adults in Britain belong to a gym and the fitness industry is worth £3.92 billion. Despite this, most people who join in January having overindulged at Christmas are unlikely to be attending a few months later. We waste £37 million a year on unused memberships. So why does our unhealthy relationship with these sweat boxes persist? Perhaps our motivations are not as noble as we think.
In the age of the selfie and TV shows like Embarrassing Bodies, it’s undeniable that we are obsessed, and often unhappy, with how we look. Where there is dissatisfaction there is money to be made and in true capitalist fashion the fitness industry is only too pleased to exploit our insecurities, disguising the desperate quest for a flatter stomach as ‘health and wellbeing’.
What’s worse is that we fall for the con like suckers. When I was inducted for the second time in my life, signing up on the orders of my physiotherapist, the helpful staff member spun the virtues of the establishment with Malcolm Tucker like alacrity:
‘Training outside is dangerous. What happens if you’re running and sprain an ankle? You might not have mobile reception. You might not even have your mobile!’
Good god, man. You’re right. I must immediately barricade myself indoors where I have full access to communication technology and no chance of jogging injuries.
I love exercising outside; to feel the sun, or more often rain, on my face; to suck in lungfuls of fresh air, well, air at least. It reminds me that I am alive. Exercise should not be feared, it can even be enjoyed. We don’t need arms like Arnie or the ass of Kim Kardashian. No one does. Except perhaps the aforementioned. It would be cruel to deny them body parts just to illustrate a point.
Free exercise options abound, a fact that Fitness Ltd would rather we forgot. How about walking to work, cycling in the park or pushing bags of compost around B&Q? An active lifestyle won’t necessarily give you a six-pack but it will help you stay healthy.
I’ll probably keep my gym membership, because I like playing squash. But I won’t bother with the Stairmaster, I’ll just take the stairs.
I first experienced the gym when I was 13. My PE teacher, Mr Johnson, was a huge man whose lifetime of training and operations had left him with no cartilage in his knees and a penchant for intimidating teenagers. During our ‘induction’, presumably to terrify us into obedience, he sat down at the leg press machine, ordered two students to stand on top of the stack of weights, and proceeded to lift the whole lot several times. The combined total would have been nearly 300kg, equivalent to three fully grown Giant Pandas. I was so impressed by this show of strength that I didn’t set foot inside a gym for another 10 years.
But don’t let me put you off. In fact, it’s unlikely to because more than 4.4 million adults in Britain belong to a gym and the fitness industry is worth £3.92 billion. Despite this, most people who join in January having overindulged at Christmas are unlikely to be attending a few months later. We waste £37 million a year on unused memberships. So why does our unhealthy relationship with these sweat boxes persist? Perhaps our motivations are not as noble as we think.
In the age of the selfie and TV shows like Embarrassing Bodies, it’s undeniable that we are obsessed, and often unhappy, with how we look. Where there is dissatisfaction there is money to be made and in true capitalist fashion the fitness industry is only too pleased to exploit our insecurities, disguising the desperate quest for a flatter stomach as ‘health and wellbeing’.
What’s worse is that we fall for the con like suckers. When I was inducted for the second time in my life, signing up on the orders of my physiotherapist, the helpful staff member spun the virtues of the establishment with Malcolm Tucker like alacrity:
‘Training outside is dangerous. What happens if you’re running and sprain an ankle? You might not have mobile reception. You might not even have your mobile!’
Good god, man. You’re right. I must immediately barricade myself indoors where I have full access to communication technology and no chance of jogging injuries.
I love exercising outside; to feel the sun, or more often rain, on my face; to suck in lungfuls of fresh air, well, air at least. It reminds me that I am alive. Exercise should not be feared, it can even be enjoyed. We don’t need arms like Arnie or the ass of Kim Kardashian. No one does. Except perhaps the aforementioned. It would be cruel to deny them body parts just to illustrate a point.
Free exercise options abound, a fact that Fitness Ltd would rather we forgot. How about walking to work, cycling in the park or pushing bags of compost around B&Q? An active lifestyle won’t necessarily give you a six-pack but it will help you stay healthy.
I’ll probably keep my gym membership, because I like playing squash. But I won’t bother with the Stairmaster, I’ll just take the stairs.
