I Wanna Quit the Gym!

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You remember that Friends episode, the one where Chandler tries to quit the gym, and he just can’t do it?  Ross tries to help him, and they suck him in too.  That is my lament right now, “I wanna quit the gym…”

 I won’t say the name of my gym, because last time I used specific names, the people from those organizations posted comments on my inconsequential little blog and made me feel like I was living in some Orwellian world, which we all are but that kind of thing makes it harder for me to continue this illusion that I am not, you know?  So I can’t quit the gym that rhymes with Mold’s.  Not because my upper butt fat cells are partying like it’s 1999 and my skinny jeans are so damn tight their new title is just going to be “jeans that used to fit me.”  I can’t quit because THEY WON’T LET ME.  The gist of the scam (yes, I said scam, anonymity breeds bravery, yes it does) is that on a whim in December I added Heather to my membership.  And that, unbeknownst to me, committed me for a whole year.  Did they tell me that when I added her?  No.  The dude just swiped my card and said, “okay, you’re all set.”  This same thing happened with my cell phone company.  I called to change my plan, and then a few months later I decided to quit my phone because my mom kept calling me all the time to tell me how much money she just won on her Keno numbers, and then to tell me the pattern of the numbers and the numbers themselves and the significance of the numbers.  Tell her to stop calling me you say?  Are you crazy?  But I could not break up with my phone because when I changed my plan I had made a secret, unspoken, one year commitment again.  I don’t get this.  It’s not a relationship, it’s a cell phone.  I don’t have to commit to cable.  Oh my God, I just realized we did a 2-year commitment to cable also.  Is this a new trend?  Are these companies so insecure that they have to get us to unwittingly agree not to break up with them?  And if this is the way things are going to be for all of my life services, could I get a prenuptial agreement?   With my gym, I can think of a few things that should make this one-year marriage null and void.  

Broken equipment.  I don’t show up to stand around and look pretty in my matching workout gear, I come here to torture myself for half and hour every day (fine, 4 days per week, if I’m lucky), and if the torture contraptions don’t work, well, you see my point. 

Weird people.  Listen, if you are going to make us all commit, sign agreements, wear your T-shirts, and treat this gym like some kind of special club, you should be more discerning about who you let in.  You should ask questions like: Do you sweat overly?  Do you wear those teeny tiny, butt-popping-out shorts?  Do you grunt when you lift weights?  Are you mean?  No mean people at the gym.  Like that James Frey look-a-like who told me to “get the hell out of my way” when he was trying to get to the front desk ahead of me.  That guy should be kicked out.  Are you lecherous?  Yes, I said it, no lechers allowed.  Go be a pervo at the strip joint.  If you need to get your jollies at the gym, you might be pretty hard up (oops, that was an accident).  I say this to the guy who pretended to be drowning in the hot tub so that when I leaned over to check on him he could look at my cleavage and say, “thank you, you’re a very nice girl…” to my boobs.    Heck, this is Nevada, there are a lot places you can go for that. 

Gross people.  For example, people who fart while they are running on the treadmill.  If this gym starts being infiltrated by public farters, I am out.  I should be able to quit my contract.  Nobody wants to talk about this, but this willy nilly farting wherever your butt happens to be pointing is unacceptable, and if I am on the treadmill next to you, guess what, I know it was you.  I’m sorry if running jars your gas right out, but then you need to take a pre-workout Gas-X or go over to the elliptical.  Or hey, even post a warning on the back of your T-shirt.  Example of extreme grossness number 2: that guy who blows his nose in the pool.  I know what you are thinking, in all of your land-of-lollipops-and-gumdrops innocence:  “People don’t do that.”  Yes, they do, and all I can say to the big gym contract people is, either the nose blower goes, or I am released from my contract.  

Lack of towels.   When I signed up for the gym, I was not at the acual gym,  I was in a conference room at my work, so I didn’t know about the towels.  But what kind of gym has no towels?  Hello, it’s called a gym towel for a reason.  All of these people are in this hot communal sweat box, and there is not a towel in sight to mop up the mess.  Oh, you can get one, but it cost a dollar.  Lame. 

I’ve been thinking about this working out thing, and I’ve drawn a few conclusions.  Nobody wants to do it, it’s an obligation we all have, like work and paying bills and not staring at someone who trips and falls in the middle of the Wal-Mart.   I have two gym memberships, because I can’t be released from the big one that I don’t like, but I’ll admit it is nice to have this cushion.  Maybe it’s what it feels like to be dating two people at once.  You always have an excuse.  If the nice lady at the desk at the small gym comments that she hasn’t seen me in awhile, I can say, well, I have a memebership at gym-I-won’t-say-that-rhymes-with-Cold’s too.  And when the spin class instructor says casually, “long time no see,” I can say,  oh ya, I also work out at insert-name-of-small-gym-here.  It sounds good, like the woman I met at the Shakespeare festival who is training for a marathon “for cross training, you know.”  Yes, I do know.  I have two gym memberships and spend most mornings on the couch with my laptop, making the big trek to the coffee maker twice.  

I see the ridiculousness of two memberships and so much morning couch time, and the logical thing to do is quit the gym, but I can’t!  It’s a conspiracy against my upper butt fat, and I’m not happy about it.

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