I have recently moved to Texas. Moving to Texas, to me, is a little like moving to a completely different planet. Other than the unrecognizable parched earth, people from Texas are quite literally in their own little world. Yeah, I’m starting to figure out, Texas is apparently a big fucking deal. The state pride here borders on lunacy and obviously, Mexico. I’m quite sure the ones who go through my garbage are probably not making the long drive from Progresso twice a week.
Right now, I am drinking out of a Bud Light can that has an illustration of the state of Texas with a big goddamn star on it. Despite my co-workers’ outrageous claims, there is nothing special about “Texas Bud Light.” Just like “Texas Busch Light” and “Texas McChicken Sandwiches”, it tastes exactly the same as if you had it in any of the other 49 states that don’t have a boner over themselves. If they really wanted to add some Texas elements to it, they should throw in some dead grass and a hint of swamp ass.
But, luckily for me, it has that same ol’ Bud Light taste and is still refreshing as I earn additional wellness credits toward my health insurance premiums. There is something so gratifying as I answer questionnaires about my lifestyle as I take a swig. Hey, it’s light beer.
You may have heard that everything is bigger in Texas, and I really hope that does not mean me. I just started working again two weeks ago, which means I had two solid weeks here without a job. After unpacking the house, I quickly set off in search of a gym.
After a short search of gyms in my area I joined a club that is part of a somewhat popular chain. I had encountered this gym in my time in Omaha and was in awe of its glory and my local club did not disappoint. This gym looks like the absolute Mecca of fitness, wellness and beauty. I chose it because it was decently close to my house, had three pools, racquetball courts, classes, more machines than I can handle, and amazing locker rooms. Plus, it was only ten bucks more than the gym I checked out earlier. The tour of the gym I looked at the day before was guided by a chubby douchebag who clearly no one liked, even the elderly ladies in the swim class. Of course, given my experience with that sort, I’m not sure why I expected them to be friendly. I know I’m obviously not slim but:
A. I don’t work at a gym.
B. I don’t take the elevator to go the cardio machines, one flight of stairs up.
No, I chose the gym that looked like a church of Scientology, complete with a spa and a
healthy café. Jay, the guy who toured me here came out to greet me in the front entrance as I waited on a nice leather couch watching Paula Deen cook up a heart attack. He was also a stout guy and balding, but likeable even though he had a very annoying habit of referring to me as “y’all.” He sat me in his office and talked to me about my goals.
“So, why y’all want to join a gym?” he asks me.
Well, it’s just me in here, unless you are counting this ass of mine. Let me tell you, nothing or no one else are fitting into these running capris. They have gotten tight, which is not attractive. Pants of this sort have gotten tricky to pull up. I almost knocked myself out once pulling up my pants in a bathroom stall. All my bending got a little out of hand and I banged my head against the stall wall. I would have been embarrassed but I was too amused by the fact that I startled the woman peeing next to me. I heard a sharp intake of breath and her stop peeing before starting again. Just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke, I threw my elbow into the wall again. Stop. Start. Hilarious.
Jay keeps referring to me as a plural. Maybe he thinks I’m pregnant, that’s always fun when that happens. Especially when someone asks you as you are drinking alcohol. Actually that’s never happened, but I’m not about to wait for that to happen so I play along with his interview, even though my reasons should be blindingly obvious. Actually, his job is not much different than mine so I take the interview as a learning experience.
He gives me a seven-day pass to try out the gym but I become a full member the next day. As he is signing me up, I am excited that the question/answer session is over and he can finally stop selling me shit.
No, I don’t want to join the running club. Running alone is embarrassing enough.
No, I don’t want someone to make me a diet plan. I don’t need to pay sixty bucks to find out beer isn’t on it.
Then he starts to talk to me about my complementary consultation with a trainer. Wait what? I don’t want that shit.
He must have seen my expression change because he says, “It’s more informational than anything, I suggest you just go and get it over with.”
My adult mind tells me that this is not a requirement of life and I should not be made to do this but for some reason I acquiesce. I am to meet with “Donna” the next day, Jay’s trainer. Jay wants to lose thirty pounds, good for him.
I dread this all night and the next day. Just when I’m feeling good about things, this visit is going to bring me down.
The assessment wasn’t good, of course, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought. I haven’t gained any weight since December. Small victory. I have actually retained most of the muscle from my training days in Kansas City, but unfortunately have just packed some fat on it. Donna was even impressed with my strength and technique as she gave me a good workout. After some intense weight lifting, we go to stretch out.
Now, I should probably point that my new city is one of the fittest small cities in the nation, and that is evident at my gym. Not only does everyone look like they stepped out of Fitness magazine, but they look like they hired a stylist for their gym visits. Everyone is wearing perfectly coordinated spandex outfits. Many women are in full makeup and their ponytails look manicured and stylish.
I, on the other hand, am wearing my old spandex running capris and a shirt I got for free on a bar crawl four years ago. My hair is pulled into a bun without the guidance of a brush and my bangs are pinned straight back. I do not fit in.
As Donna is pushing my leg toward my face, one such woman comes bouncing up to Donna. She tells Donna how she regretted canceling her membership last month and just had to come back because she gained three pounds. I stare at her and think those three pounds probably really helped her hipbones chafe her skin a little less. I imagine pushing her down the steps but realize the weakness of my jealous and stare at my leg instead. Blondie bounces away just as I see a flash of doughy white flesh peeking out from a place it shouldn’t.
“OH MY GOD” I interject.
Donna, who was clearly surprised I made it this far with her, must have thought she finally succeeded in hurting me and drops my leg. “Are you ok? Did I go too far?” she said.
My filter is off. “I have a goddamn hole in my pants. Have I had a hole in my pants this whole goddamn time? Why didn’t you tell me?!”
Donna, relieved, laughs nervously. “Oh, who cares, it’s a gym.”
The women next to me has a Louis Vuttion bag for her gym towel, and I’m sure it’s real. Two holes are on the right inside of my leg. I check the crotch area and that part has held, for now, but I’m not optimistic.
“Ok, we’re done," I said as I get up.
I went to Target and got some new gym clothes. I have been to the gym on a regular basis since, but I ignore Donna, who always tries to remind me that I have another “complementary” session left. Clearly, she feels our last visit has not sold me on her $90/hr rates.
