I’m joining a gym.
I know what many of you may be thinking.
“Jessi, didn’t you try this once before at the Women’s Nautilus Club. Wasn’t that you who signed up for a six-month membership and went once, count ‘em once? Is this the same Jessi Gates who doesn’t like to run, doesn’t like to sweat, and has the endurance of a feverish sloth?”
Yes, yes, and yes.
It’s all true and don’t think these thoughts haven’t flitted through my mind as I’ve been contemplating this membership.
But, at twenty-seven, I think that it is high time I experimented with this crazy fad I’ve heard about called “working out.” And I have the time right now. And as a student, it is pretty cheap to join the gym. Plus, they’re haranguing me.
I went in last week to look at prices and plans with the membership guy, one of those intimidating Beautiful People who frequent these kind of establishments. He showed me around – it’s a really nice facility – and I filled out the little “interest” form and said I’d be back to sign up for real.
I didn’t go back.
Sunday, the membership department called me to ask if I was still interested in joining. “Yes,” I said, trying to noiselessly fold up the bag of chips I had been eating. I told them I’d come in Tuesday to seal the deal.
Wednesday morning, another call from the membership department. Although there were no accusations of being a flake, I know that my file says something like “SKIPPED APPOINTMENT” or “FLIGHT RISK.” I’m supposed to go in this afternoon, and if I bring my friend who’s a member, they’ll give us twenty quid cash back.
If they’re as persistent about my physical condition as they are about my membership, I’m going to be a Greek goddess soon.