There is a new phrase lately popularized that summarizes the state of being by which a person, or persons, expend vast amounts of energy getting fit without doing any of the activities traditionally viewed as exercise, ie. swimming, farming, running from rapists, bar fighting, and training ones blade on wild tundra beasts. Hence forth, indoor euro-weenie techno music aerobicoolies are to be called "gym potatoes". Until 2 weeks ago, I was not among their rank. I have exercised vigilantly in the privacy of my own home for 5 years now, and am proud to call my ass my own, but recently due to the urgings of my roommate and the irresitable home lull of the season 6 DVD box set of Angel, I was connived into joining the only gym within walking distance of our house: Curves International.
They first got us with the promise of a free trial week: bring a friend! Apparently, the week according to Curves lasts only 3 days, and closes early enough on Saturday to allow the Seventh Day Adventists ample time to enjoy the tomato soup and cucumber sandwich portion of their worship. We arrived a few weeks after receiving the invitation at the Newcomers social, feeling pretty special about it, and were promptly weighted, measured, and asked to set the some "goals". Like, SCORE!
It was nice in a way, as a woman amongst women, not to have to worry about too long stares at the camel toe of my too tight spandex exercise pants, nor about any potential feelings of competition from fellow workouters, since they were all old and overweight, and therefore, who could possibly care. There are also no televisions, only Curves approved hydraulic workout machines, and techno remix Bryan Adams and Billy Idol hits to set the beat for some low intensity fat flogging. Their campaigning is relentless: there is not a moment that goes by that there is not some promotion that must be taken advantage of, or some fee that will be waved for a limited time only. We got in on the half price off the membership and rest of the year free deal, which ends...oh, right around now.
I deliberately investigated as little about them as possible before making the decision to join, but having been at it for a couple weeks, I finally felt compelled to find out what my hard earned cash was buying besides firmer thighs. And it is a horrible travesty.
The founder of the company is a Texan named Gary Heavin, who found Jesus in rich white mans prison, where he was serving time for failing to pay child support. He has since dedicated his life to taking money from overweight middle aged women and using it to pay militant anti-abortionists to harass pro-choice doctors and proponents. The thought that my fitness fund is going to print off more "Support retroactive abortion for unwanted Liberals" bumperstickers makes my blood run cold.
Although the Dorothy Spornak look-a-like who runs this particular facility assured us that the franchise is 100% independent and that Gary won't get a red cent of me moolah, the fact that she gasps in horror when towels are placed only half in the laundry hamper makes me wonder at her ability to grasp the in's and out's of the businesses financial dealings.
Once the term is up, I think it'll be back to wrestling fish and fucking in the bushes, the way exercise is supposed to be.
No comments:
Post a Comment