I Joined a Gym. Now I Just Pay Rent on a Treadmill I Don’t Use.

I Joined a Gym. Now I Just Pay Rent on a Treadmill I Don’t Use.

By: Future Buff Version of Me (Still Pending)

       [ The Jobless Blogger ]

It started like all noble quests do: a burst of motivation mixed with body image panic and an email with a 3-month gym discount.

I signed up online. Easy. I even picked the Premium plan. You know, the one where you get unlimited guest passes and access to the “quiet yoga room,” which is just a carpeted area where people pretend to stretch while scrolling Instagram.

I got new workout clothes because apparently cotton is a crime against fitness. I downloaded an app that tracks your reps. I made a playlist titled “Beast Mode” even though the most intense thing I’ve lifted recently was my cat.

Day one: I showed up, scanned my key tag, and immediately panicked. Everyone looked very focused. One guy was lifting weights the size of small planets. Someone else was on a rowing machine like they were trying to escape a flood.

I found a treadmill and tried to look confident while setting it to “brisk human walk.” After six minutes, I got a weird side cramp that felt like my spleen had filed for divorce. I told myself it was enough for today.

Then I discovered the smoothie bar. Do you know they make “chocolate peanut butter protein shakes” that somehow taste like dessert and regret at the same time?

Day two: I wore my new gear but forgot headphones. You don’t realize how vital music is until you’re trying to squat in silence next to a guy who’s audibly grunting like a confused moose.

Day three: I opened the gym’s app. Didn’t go. But I did log in, which I feel should count toward my mental reps.

It’s been three weeks. I now refer to my membership as “a donation to the community.” I’ve visited twice, both times to use the vending machine because it sells Pop-Tarts, and I respect a place that mixes fitness with chaos.

Will I go back? Maybe. Probably. Eventually.

But first I need to stretch… emotionally.