I’m fat. Hey, it happens to the best of us. The bust of us. The butt of us. The belly of us. Now granted, I’m a little more body-conscious and obsessed than some — blame it on years and years in front of mirrors. Not the bathroom, mind you, but dance mirrors. Years to watch my body with an eye so critical I could see flaws with my eyes shut. Flaws that may not have even been there. But were.
So, when I actually have the courage to stand in front of the mirror now — completely naked — and acknowledge that the body I am seeing now is 47 years old, pale and pasty, hinting at manboobs, glorying in back fat and an “outie”… When I can look down — okay, around — at the scale and see that I am 20 pounds heavier than where my previously impeccable, unerringly accurate body clock used to nestle, I expect the damn gym I choose to join to help me stop hating myself to be available immediately.
Enter the oxymoron “Anytime Fitness” — a chain of clubs built on the principle and marketing prowess of 24-hour access to a facility full of equipment just waiting to help you regain or maintain the physique you desire… IF you can actually get into the fucking building! I’ve been trying to join this gym for two weeks now. TWO WEEKS. I’ve called. I’ve emailed. I’ve visited on weekends. On weekdays. I’ve sat outside the club in my car and called them on my cell over and over again to no avail. There are people — members — working out in there. I can see them. I just can’t become one of them. The doors are looked. I don’t have the fab fob that lets me in. How do you run a business like this? My clients would dump me so fast I’d be bruised and bleeding. But for some reason, Anytime Fitness, is still filling a niche without ever being available! How long do they think my commitment to my personal health will actually last? Don’t they know there’s a finite window of opportunity? A limited number of hours before I go back to using dimmer switches? A few pristine moments of clarity before I go back to putting on my clothes first, and putting in my contacts last? Who are these people? Have they no compassion? Don’t they realize I MUST join a gym where no one knows me? Where no one recognizes me? Where no one can say: “Whoa… the years weren’t necessarily kind to Alan.” Come on — Anytime now, Fitness!