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Well, Hell. I’ve been saying it for a while now…they opened a Curves literally within walking distance from my house. And I’m thinking, “Hey…a gym within walking distance? It’s not like I have any excuses for not checking that out.” So check it out I did, along with my oldest.

Uhhhh…well, let’s just say it wasn’t what I expected.

We go in there, and first off, the place is a bright salmon pink. Pink as hell, everywhere. I mean, shit. I like pink even, but even I was about to OD. There was some dumb old top forty soundtrack playing on the boombox just like any other gym, except that every 30 seconds, it was interrupted by a recorded female voice demanding the participants to “Change stations!” 

But anyway, whatever. I’m expecting little Miss Exercise Lady to show us around, show us the machines and facilities and explain the program they have. Right? That’s what you’d think.

Not exactly.  :eek: !

First thing, she wants to ask questions. Huh? But being ever the meek consumers, we go sit down at a back table with a trainee along for the ride.

Ok…And what kind of questions are these? Not the kind I would expect to get shown around a gym. I mean, ok, I understand the point–as a sales approach, they want to act like you’ve already joined–but damn.

• How much do you weigh?
• How much do you want to weigh?
• What was your highest weight?
• Why do you think you’re overweight? (I responded, “Uh…food.” Geez.)
• Do you have stress? (I didn’t say, “Duh, ” although I was tempted. Instead, it was “yes.”) This was followed up by, “Why do you have stress?” I responded, “Life.” What the fuck?
• Why do you want to lose weight?
• Are you doing this for yourself? (No. The aliens told me to do it.)
• Are you willing to commit 30 minutes a day, 3 times a week, to a new you?
• What size do you want to wear?
• Blah blah fuckin’ blah.

I mean, it was like we’d been attacked by an avid self-help-book reader or something, determined to solve any weight-related concerns with not-so-pithy cliches in 30 seconds or less. It was kind of disturbing and rather ackward. Nonetheless, I responded as if it were normal to be having that conversation.

This was follwed up by weight and measurement time,  which included some uncomfortable moments when I swear to God she totally squish my boobs with the tape measure and then hopping on a scale that I’d swear was set to weigh 10 pounds over, and ended with us some little video-game controller thing that Ms. Exercise Lady claimed could tell her the secret of my body fat. Needless to say, it wasn’t pretty. None of it was pretty. But she filled out the membership card as if we’d already signed up.

Finally, the lady showed us the machines. There were like a half dozen, set in a circle, with little mats in between. The mats were “jogging mats” for getting your heart rate up between stations. And the machines are hydralics that has some resistance each way, but felt absolutely nothing like regular machines you get in a gym. I didn’t see how 30 seconds on each of these, 3 times a week, would do shit. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to sit in a circle and look at strangers when I’m exercising. I want to pretend like I’m the only person there, man. Fuck female bonding time. I am just not comfortable with that kind of shit, you know?

And for the grand finale, we hit the price. The lower monthly rate that was quoted on the phone is only for direct bank withdrawls and a  year minimum contract. Both that and the higher, month-to-month rate required a significant signup fee (temporarily discounted for “first time visitors”), blah blah blah.

I told her we’d “think about it,” and did get the information, in the unlikely event that I’d ever decide to go there, and excused us from the room.

Anyway, I think if I want to go to the gym, I’ll go to the next town over.