I signed the papers and handed them over. This gym was perfectly situated by my work. It’s a racquetball club, actually. “Ok,” she scanned them. I looked around.
No underemployed gym rats and hardly any women. Just a bunch of toned executive types paying racquetball while the ellipticals got dusty in the corner, and the fitness class I dropped in on? I was half the class. Perfect, I thought. I can drop in after work, get in, get out. No crowds, low rates because I have no desire to play racquetball.
The receptionist handed me my membership card. “Would you like water, juice or beer?”
She pointed to the case. “Water? Juice? Beer?” She pulled out a Stone IPA, like she knew me.
I looked around. A handsome 50-something fella winked at me as he walked past me, out the door to his BMW, throwing another look my way as he put the top down.
“Is this really a gym?”
“Sure” was her answer.
I went back again today. As I was walking in, juggling a purse and gym bag, a woman, younger and thinner than me, held the door for me on her way out. “Well aren’t you pretty!” she chirped.
I turned to the receptionist. “This clearly isn’t a real gym. It’s some sort of experiment.”
“Sign in here please?”