Light Refreshments Served

When I first moved here I joined a nice, little, local health club, and I loved it. I had just given birth for the first time, and when I would show up for the 9am class my instructor would go crazy over my baby. The teacher let me keep my daughter in the Snugli while she instructed us in the art of step aerobics, which lulled my daughter to sleep every time without fail. (A baby who slept through exercise – we were definitely related.) The class was routinely attended by the same people; some old, some young and incredibly fit, some nursing through injuries, one who battled multiple sclerosis, and another who was running for Senate. The instructor took a genuine interest in her class members, and we were a content little group.

Until Big Bad Corporate Health Club In The Sky and Haters of Happy Little Gyms showed up and crashed our party. They bought us out, lied about keeping our facility alive, and eventually merged us over to their heinous edifice of ten thousand treadmills and 21-year-old boys with egos the size of Michigan who really just wanted to get more dates but went by the title of “personal trainers”. I was greeted by the King Of All Meatheads on my first day who gave me a tour of the new digs – he used my first name excessively, the way a used car salesman might to get me to buy a car that was out of my price range. With no better alternative, I joined the gym. I have been there for ten years, and other than my two-year stint with an instructor named Marty who brought me joy every Tuesday night with his Hip Hop class, I have hated every minute of it. No, I could not bring my baby to class in a Snugli. No, I could not even bring her past the front desk without her social security number, birth certificate, fingerprints, and hair samples. No, they would not take her in the nursery until she was at least a year old. No, they would not turn out the lights during Spin Class because it was against policy. No, they would not warm up the room or dim the lights for Yoga – against policy. No, you could not use the group exercise room equipment unless you were in a specified group exercise class, because you are too lame to use a rubber band by yourself and you might whack yourself in the forehead and shoot your eye out and sue us. It’s against policy.

Like staying with a bad boyfriend because nobody better has come along, I stayed at this gym. But I never gave up on the dream. Someday I would waltz into the club and be able to declare, “Hey, meathead! Yeah, you – the one whose ego is writing checks your body can’t cash. You guys stink. We are sooooo over.” My new housing development comes with access to a gym that we pay for through our HOA fee. My dream has come true. My mornings of listening to the grunts from “Testosterone Corner” (a.k.a. the free weights section) are finished, and my days spent standing in line for a drink of water or donating a kidney to borrow a basketball from the front desk are a thing of the past.

I called the 800#:
Me: “I’d like to cancel my membership.” We are breaking up.
Josh From Corporate: “May I ask why you’d like to end your amazing membership with us?” What’s wrong baby? Don’t you know you’ll never find anyone better than me?”
Me: “I belong to another club now, and I don’t need two memberships.” He’s cuter. Funnier. And all the treadmills have their own TV.
JFC: “Well I’m sorry to hear that.” Good riddance. I’ll have another girlfriend in like, three hours.
Me: “Uh-huh.” Liar!

My first day at the new club starts on Monday. Sorry Josh From Corporate, we just weren’t meant to be together.