Dear Gold's Gym

Dear Gold’s Gym: You ain’t nothing but a hound dog.


I was originally sucked into your death trap in the summer of 2010. For the first time in my collegiate career, I was stuck in Provo during the most glorious months of the year, and Utah weather is not exactly Roseburg’s banana belt. It became too hot to run outside. You therefore lured me in to your building with a “Bring your friend” week, cardio theater, and air condoning. You just happened to be four blocks away from my apartment, as well. I went for a test run, and you talked me into joining, even though I said I would only be able to do it for a year. You said, “No problem! We’ll put in your file that the contract is just for one year.” From the get-go I knew you were lying. But I allowed you to continue to take advantage of me because of my flab and my boredom. When the year mark rolled around, I ended up not moving after all, and decided to keep going to the gym. I knew I didn’t even need to contact you about extending my so-called one -year contract for another year. Those notes were never in there in the first place. My theory was proven correct when I was allowed to continually waltz through the doors of your Salt Lake location day after day, without as little as a nod. Things weren’t too bad while attending your gym. For the most part, I always found a machine available. The trainers looked like overly tan, steroid-filled buffoons, but that is to be expected. The Salt Lake location even provided me with a little more variety than the Provo gym – more tattoos, piercings, and midriffs.

And then February rolled around.

My April end date was quickly approaching. At the end of April I would free of any contract or any monthly fee with you. And with us possibly moving to Oregon, I had already made up my mind that I would not be renewing my contract. Even if we stay in Salt Lake, I would prefer to find an establishment that doesn’t try to suck me dry of everything I’m worth. The first time I went to the gym in February, the front desk attendant scanned my card, and then apparently reading a command to ask me if I would be renewing my membership, asked if I would be doing so. I kindly told her I would not. “OK!”  she replied, cheerfully. So far, innocent. The next week time I went to the gym, I was asked again by a different attendant if I would be renewing my membership. Again, I told her no. The next time, it happened again, and I asked if she could put a note in my membership or something, so that I didn’t get asked every time I came to work out. She said she would. The next week, I received a call from member services asking me to renew my membership. I told the woman that I would not be renewing my membership because we would be moving (I didn’t say that it may just be across town). She said she would put a note in my file. Wasn’t there already a note? Two days later, I was at work and got a call from an unknown number. It was YOU –again. For the millionth time I was asked if I would renew my membership. I told the same story. Not 15 minutes later, the same lady called and made the same introductory presentation. I told her, “Um, I think you just called me like 15 minutes ago and I told you I would not be renewing my membership.” She responded confidently, “No, I didn’t.” Ok, whatever. I again told her that I would not be able to renew my membership. She said—as usual—that she would put a note in my file. Two days later, I entered your gym, scanned my card at the front desk, and headed for the elliptical machine, thinking I had finally escaped your annoying wrath. Suddenly however, I heard the girl at the counter snap and call to one of the ladies in tight spandex standing by the entrance to the cardio room. Without having to look, I know she pointed at me. Spandex Woman ran over to me, almost physically stopped me, and asked in a cheerful voice, “Will you be renewing your membership with us?” I wanted so badly to snap those spandex pants and send her flying. I replied, “No.” And then I said, with no more patience, and with much exasperation, “I have been asked this every time I’ve come in for the last month, and I have had people calling and calling. Everyone has said they were going to put a note in my file. Can someone PLEASE put a note in my file?” Two guys at the counter looked at me and must have finally decided that I had reached my breaking point, because one of them replied, “Yeah, we can do that. I’ll do that right now.” Since then, I have had no attacks and have finally been able to focus on my workouts, instead of my karate reflexes in defending myself against you.

Dear Gold’s Gym: I hope you know you ain’t nothing but a hound dog.