I am not what is generally considered a Y person. However, my recent gluttony over the holidays, spurred by an errant early New Year’s resolution, necessitated some kind of serious intervention. The Y seemed a likely option.

You see, I’m married to a fabulous woman who is a fabulous cook, and we eat all too well and all too often. Over the past several weeks, I resolved not to feel any guilt over what or how much I ate or drank. When someone offered me a gingerbread man or a delicious homemade cookie, I had no compunction about taking not just one, but several. And when my wife (did I mention she’s a fabulous cook?) asked me to finish off the extra pasta rather than put it in the fridge, or God forbid toss it, I happily obliged. Net result: My girth exceeded my pant size.

Thank goodness for elastic attire and bulky sweatshirts which I thought concealed a multitude of glazed donuts and buttery bagels.

A little family background. I have two brothers, each of whom bought an exercise machine to work out at home. One was in a panic when a screw fell out and he couldn’t get his stair master to work. The other suffered back pain from inappropriate use of an elliptical gadget. I have a cousin who bought a stationary bike which has served as a clothes rack for years. I come from a sedentary background.

Plus my career allows no room for exercise. I drive a bus and freelance write; both jobs require hand-eye coordination and mental concentration with no room for deep-knee bends. Furthermore, I am resistant to change.

To get to the heart of the matter, just before the New Year dawned, we joined the Y, located in case you hadn’t heard, near the geographic center of the Vineyard right across from the high school. With the approaching visage of Janus glaring at us on the horizon, we put pen to paper, took money from the purse and signed up.

On my first day we toured the facilities, but I deemed it imprudent to get my feet wet or break a sweat, so we decided to sample the cafe for a delightful early lunch. Excellent food at reasonable prices. But I felt we were avoiding the heart and soul of the matter; at least I was.

We had never even set foot inside the squeaky clean new Y. I haven’t participated in organized athletics since junior high, a half-century ago. It was daunting to wander amid sweaty athletes, pedaling, pumping, pushing a multitude of machines. Fortunately a capable, considerate trainer guided us around the complex. The idea is to motivate newbies to make life changes. We’ll see how well that works.

On the first day she ventured into the Y, my wife decided to swim. After 15 minutes in the pool, she stumbled out, mumbling it took forever to swim two laps. Sounded like an Olympic size pool, or my wife had not been in the water for some time, or both.

Next day we both enrolled in the enticing health and fitness program, aimed to get slouches off couches and into the gym, offering a regimen of exercises and sensible diets to erstwhile losers of weight. It sounds good, but didn’t start until this week, so I had a few more days of candied apples and ice cream before things got serious.

My wife, the fabulous cook, did return to the Y for a second swim, and noted the pool had shrunk from her first day, and she felt a pleasant ping in her arms. Maybe this will work out.

And me? I plan to stop by for a workout, and maybe run into a few familiar faces. Don’t want to go too far too fast. Besides, dinner’s almost ready!

Gazette contributor Tom Dresser lives in Oak Bluffs.