My gym called me the other day, and by ‘’gym”, I mean “the place where I paid forty bucks a month for the privilege of berating myself senseless three times a week.” The gym must be very hard up for clients, because I terminated my contract with them almost two years ago.
They wanted me to know that they would be very happy to welcome me back and that they were prepared to offer me a “special rate” to do so. The young man on the other end was very perky and so earnestly full of good spirit that I felt mean for letting him down and refusing. But, it was also hard for me to not want to put a big old spike right through his head, either.
I had to tell him, in the most gentle terms possible, that I hated the gym, hated it with all the strength and purpose that God Himself had given me. That I would rather chew off my own right arm than go to the gym again. That the gym whipped me into a frenzy of loathing, and that I would never voluntarily darken their doorstep again. To which he paused and replied….”oh”.
I did assure him that I didn’t just reserve my revulsion for his gym alone, I hated all gyms. I have to give him kudos, he did keep talking to me, which, had I had me on the phone, I’d have probably given up. But he gamely asked me why I disliked going to the gym, to which I had to ask if he wanted my objections listed in order of importance, chronologically or alphabetically. At this point he laughed, recognized that he was on the phone with a legitimate nutbar, and wished me a good evening.
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