TheBakersfieldCalifornian.com

I've been busy at the gym for the last year. When I joined last summer, I was adamant with the enrollment guy that I only wanted a month-to-month membership. Of course, he wanted to sell me for three years straight, but I've tried that before. Twice, in fact -- once when I was 19 and the other when I was 28.

The first time I stopped right away because ... well ... I was 19, and I could skip a meal and lose two pounds on my own. The second time I stopped because I was a new mother, with an infant, trying to workout at 9:30 p.m. I don't think I need to explain much more on why that didn't work. Typical quitter anthem stuff.

Back to last year, when that enrollment rep was trying to sell me on a three-year membership. I gave him a stoic, unwavering glance after I told him "no" for the fourth time. When that didn't work, I simply said, "If you knew me as well as I know me, you'd let this go and sign me up for the month-to-month."

At the time, I knew I was overweight, that my metabolism had gone on permanent disability, and diet alone was no longer enough. I also knew my track record for gym commitment. If I didn't see significant progress in a couple of months, I'd quit. Three months prepaid on a month-to-month was the maximum level of my commitment.

Twelve months later, I'm still paying and still working out. Further, I can't imagine stopping even though I hate every sweaty minute of it. In the last year, I've lost more than 20 pounds, added muscle, and can functionally pull off those unholy short skirts; but, modesty-wise, you wouldn't catch me dead in one of those, so I guess it's a moot point.

It's been slow going, that's certain. And I know if I didn't allow myself entire weekends of what I call 'hog-wild gourmet,' I would have seen results sooner. But I do enjoy food, and I relish perfecting my talents in the kitchen, so if it takes longer to reach my goal -- and I'm biting less heads off because I'm not starving -- so be it.

I have 10 more pounds or so to go before I fit back into my infamous pair of button-fly Levi 501s. (When your future husband tells you the first thing he noticed about you was the way you looked in a pair of jeans, you keep those jeans.)

Here's a rough sketch of one year's worth of a month-to-month membership:

Month 1 - 5:30 a.m. cycling class on Mondays and Wednesdays. Have I boarded the crazy train? Who gets up this early to punish themselves? And since when is background music for the gates of hell appropriate for A) a cycling class, and B) 5:30 a.m.? Lost two pounds. So not worth it.

Month 3 - Added the kids to gym membership. Blast it all, they love it and encourage me to go more often. Dropped the 5:30 a.m. class -- good riddance you sadists -- and added an evening cycling class and evening Zumba class. Minimal weight loss makes me think exercise is still not worth it. But I found an exercise buddy and the drudgery improves when we laugh at people trying to text and treadmill at the same time. At least their thumbs are slimming down.

Month 5 - Became friends with both the cycling and Zumba instructor. My admiration for the two prevents me from mumbling unmentionables under my breath, directed at their overly peppy slave driving. In the past, I found that snarling helped me push past my fatigue. Now, I have to focus my frustration at others around me. Do you know the worst part of having someone exercise next to you, grunting for an hour straight? The grunting.

Month 7 - Clothes are still getting looser, but the scale taunts me! It's time to give up 'hog-wild gourmet' weekends. Those yummy but large meals are not worth the sweat I shed. But again, I'm no sadist. Same food on the weekend, but my portion size is the same as my toddler's.

Month 9 - Decided to run a 5k and came in second place. Would've taken first if I hadn't misjudged the girl I let pass me at the last turn. Surely, she wasn't in my 30-39 age group, so I let her go. Turns out, she was 31. And childless. That explained why she looked younger. My bad.

Month 11 - I'm addicted to running and that means I am, in fact, a sadist. Go figure. I go around telling people that the human body wasn't meant to run that fast for extended periods unless they're escaping bears or ax murderers, yet I do it a few times a week and endure certain pain for the endorphin rush. Well that, and to pretend I'm escaping my children on particularly disobedient days.

Month 12 - I'm writing this when I'd rather be running. No childless 31-year-old will ever beat me again. I hope.

-- Heather Ijames is one of three community columnists whose work appears here every Saturday. These are the opinions of Ijames, not necessarily The Californian's. You can send e-mail to her at hijames@bakersfield.com. Next week: Inga Barks.