I know most of you are just starting your day; maybe some of you are getting that first cup of joe or chatting with a coworker, but please take a seat because I have some distressing news to report. It appears that hell has just frozen over. Yes, get into your house and lock the door because outside in the cold, frigid air, pigs are flying and the fat lady has just sung, terribly I might add. I am sure the suspense is killing you, so I will just come right out and say it: I recently joined a ggggyyyymmm, sigh, gym; there I said it. I know, I know, it’s worse than you thought and I am sorry for that. However, before you begin judging me, you should know that I did not join willingly. That’s right; I was tricked into taking this hiatus into hell. Tricked, I tell you; by a close friend, no less.

How you ask? Well, the truth is I haven’t stepped foot into a gym in years, so when my friend suggested the two of us get a gym membership, (and knowing she is fully aware of my repulsion towards fitness institutions), I naively thought she was referring to Jimmy Johns or Jim Beam bourbon. Free subs, shot of the month, maybe? No, according to Merriam-Webster, she was referring to the noun which means gymnasium or physical education, possibly the most despicable words in the written language; not to be confused with the most vile words in the written language which would be diet and fat free. However, I did not figure this out until later, so when she told me to wear athletic clothes one day, I in my blissful ignorance thought that Jimmy Johns was giving away free subs to people who appeared to be living a healthy lifestyle... key word here, appeared. I mean, Chick Fila gives away sandwiches to people dresses as cows, so I didn’t think it was too farfetched.   

With that being said, I am sure you can imagine my gut–wrenching shock and blood curdling scream when we showed up at an LA Fitness—not Gold’s Gym, not a folksy neighborhood training facility, but an LA Fitness. God, even the name sounds phony. I am not even sure why anyone would name a gym after L.A. since their fitness regime typically focuses around two words: Nip/Tuck. This has to be what purgatory looks like: white, sterile and surrounded by girls wearing skin-tight spandex, while sweaty amazon men carry around what looks to be small children on their biceps. Seriously, who is their role-model, the T-Rex? Cee-Lo Green? Arms are supposed to lay down by your side, not permanently hang in the air like you’re doing a squat.

 And to make matters worse, my friend insisted on wearing a huge heart rate monitor belt, which sits around the stomach like some kind of space age fanny pack; I kept waiting for the moment when she would turn it on and start running like the bionic woman. Unfortunately, the only thing it succeeding in doing was attracting the older crowd who bombarded the elliptical thinking she had Werther’s candies in there; it took twenty minutes and three employees to dissolve the mob and even then, there were stragglers. One of the stragglers, Bernice would not leave until I agreed to give a shout out to her grandson, Luke, who just won third place in his science fair. Way to go Luke.