And the other day was most certainly one of those times.
Why the lack of judgement?
Maybe it was because a lot of my friends have been lamenting loudly the approach (or arrival) of 40.
That particular number seems to prompt discussion like no other amongst my peers. And, funnily enough, you don't even have to be 38 or 39 for it to be of concern. Apparently, being anywhere between 32 and 39 are sufficient grounds for exclamations of woe, mutterings of your life being nearly over, and conversations about the best deals on burial plots...
But (to me as an observer) the most fascinating symptom befalling my friends approaching 40 is the sudden onset of an irrational desire to obtain a gym membership.
Gyms. Health clubs. Sports centres. Bio-mechanical Improvement and Conditioning Facilities... Torture chambers... Call them what you will.
They have just never appealed to me.
However, in the interest of better understanding my friends' newly found psychosis, I actually ventured into a gym yesterday. An experience which will now never be repeated.
I think the first thing that struck me about the gym was the front door. Sure, it LOOKED like your normally available, commercially designed, double entry, push or pull to enter, plate glass door.... But it weighed tonnes.
Now it is my considered opinion that the design of these doors is specifically aimed at doing four things.
One: To embarrass the new client, purely for the pure amusement of staff and the regular fitness freaks.
How? By tricking 'first-timers' into mistakenly believe that a normal amount of force, tried and tested through everyday living and experiences, exerted upon doors dimensioned to a familiar standard, will actually gain a person entry into the establishment. Fat chance!!! (No pun intended)
Instead, you are instantly required to participate in some sort of 'quasi-Viking strong man contest' just to gain entry. Making the unsuspecting first-time patron groan out loud repeatedly like a wounded bull, and contort their face in ways that Jerry Lewis or Jim Carrey would be proud of. Ensuring that every other person within the premises pauses their current activity, and turns their curious gaze in your direction.
...Your level of dignity has been bruised!
And once you're lucky enough to finally make your way through the 'gates of Troy', what is your reward?
To be given the honour of being able to lurch your way over to the front desk/sign-in/reception area, sweat-ridden, red-faced, winded, and wondering if your bowels are still intact...
Only to be then greeted by 'that look'... Do you know the one? Sure, you do...
It is that unforgettable expression that is a blend of polite understanding and amusement, coupled with that sublime mixture of mockery and pity. Aimed at you with unerring accuracy, by a modern day Adonis if you're female, or Aphrodite if you're male.
Of course, with their clipboard and pen at hand!
...Your dignity is getting pounded!
Two: To make our bodies become so oxygen deprived, and so laden with lactic acid from the effort of moving 35 tonnes of glass front-door, that we become so delirious that we will sign anything, and consume without complaint, simply to quench out thirst, some strange health cocktail of blended lawn clippings and fish sweat. Available at the ever so 'reasonable' price of $12.99 a glass. Apparently, the only style of drink for sale.
I suggest to you, that this is the only real reason people really take bottled water to these establishments. Sidenote: I also suspect that the owners of these torture chambers are the major stock holders in these bottled water companies.
...Your dignity is as fragile as a mouse in a nest of vipers!
Three: To prevent you from leaving post-hate*.Once adequate oxygenated blood has returned to your brain, optic nerves, and eyes there is a sudden realisation that everyone else in the building is 6ft tall, with rippling stomach muscles, dazzling white teeth, bronzed skin and perfect hair. With not a drop of sweat between them.
It is impossible to avoid seeing the throng of perfect human specimens.
With mirrors that have been placed with militaristic precision, the unfit newcomer finds themself trapped in a kaleidoscope of living Greek statues.
*Of course the thought to leave is only possible once you've recovered from your drink of 'pure mountain spring water, collected by vestal virgins, under a midsummer moon, infused with pond scum from the upper Amazon'.
...Your dignity has now panicked beyond recognition and wants out, any way possible, dragging your body with it.
Four: It is at this point you are faced with a horrible decision. Struggle once more with the 'front doors from hell', or use the ever-so-easy-to-open emergency exit at the rear of the building?
The choice is made.
You stagger your way over to the front desk.
Take the clipboard from the Adonis/Aphrodite.
Fill in the membership form, choosing the least expensive option.
Realise why gyms show such great profit margins.
Hand over your identification, proof of address, credit card; wait for all that to be returned.
Place everything back in your wallet or purse.
Sneak, and limp, sneak, and limp, your way to the emergency door, and exit, never to return.
And throw your new gym membership card in the first garbage bin you can find.
...Your dignity begins its slow rebuilding phase. Helped along by a quick visit to pub, where you drink 5 beers, and eat a steak sandwich, with chips and gravy on the side. Before heading home, feeling much better about yourself!
**********
And that is why I will never take up another gym membership in my life!
