Just when you thought that magical season had ended — people-choked malls, how we will miss you! — we embark together on another annual ritual. This is the year, we vow, that we will lose those 10 pounds, finish those unwritten books, whip our lives into Martha Stewart precision. Like hatching baby sea turtles, we swarm across the sands towards our goals, vast as the ocean. The annual migration of the Resolutionaries begins.

Clad in tight sweat pants that, we tell ourselves, must have shrunk in the wash, we arrive at the gym, flushed with enthusiasm. Stretching our limbs, atrophied from weeks of holiday lounging, we blink in the unforgiving glare. As the first wave of us hits the treadmills, our holiday sins vaporize into a fine sweat, smelling faintly of turkey and egg nog.

Some of us who — let's be honest — have never worked out ponder the mystifying machines. A woman yanks on the pull-down bar used to work your back muscles. The weights are so heavy they pull her back up again. Not to be defeated, she strains through a few more reps before collapsing on the bench, exhausted. Tomorrow, she'll feel it, and not in a good way.

A man in a muscle shirt sits the wrong way on the military press, facing the seat, grabbing the handles and raising them over his head. It sort of hurts his back, but at least it's working his elbows.

Another man uses the machine bench press like a rowing machine.With his feet on the foot bar that's used to counterbalance the weight until you get your hands in the proper position, he furiously pulls back on the hand grips. If he keeps this up, he'll have really strong wrists in no time!

Finally, the staff takes pity, slipping up to those who need help and correcting their technique. And we regulars, returned after months of slacking, nod smugly. Sure, our clothes are tighter than they were last summer, but at least we know how to use a Nautilus.

But nature can be cruel, and as the months wear on, flipper by flipper, the Resolutionaries vanish. Bogged down in sands of despair, or plucked by seagulls of distraction, they give up the race.

Still, some of us keep moving. We struggle over mountainous dunes. We surpass crabs. We race, on aching flippers, to dip into the ocean we know— this year, for sure — we will reach.