Marketing for Masochists.

There must be a certain art to the unique pitch that is getting someone to join a gym. I went to check out a place that does yoga near me this week. It’s fancy but Zen so it has the pared back decor of a monastery. If said monastery came courtesy of Yves Saint Laurent, that is. It screams serious money, which probably means it’s brought to me by the (currently under tax fraud investigation) owner of the giant mall next door.

So I walk in, me trying to bluff my way passed the rather burly female security guard downstairs. Oh, I have a free pass in this damn carpet bag of a purse somewhere. I know I do, I tell her as I try to scowl and smile simultaneously. I add a helpless shrug and she tells me to go on up. So upstairs I go, passed the Returned Serviceman’s League club with its wafting Eau de Day-old Meatloaf and Mentholated Old People. Tasty.

I arrive at the front desk, and pretend I know what I’m doing for a few minutes. There are pamphlets with pretty people on the front, which I peruse as the people behind the desk answer calls. I talk to the desk clerk who helpfully informs me that their casual rate is $33. Equally casually I try not aspirate my own spit when she says this.

She tells me she can get someone to bring me a schedule. I take a seat and wait on one of their giant wooden chairs. It’s one of those chairs that even someone with a good foot on my whole 5′3″ would have difficulty getting their legs to meet the floor on. I give up trying to be comfortable quickly. This is a gym. I’m not meant to be comfortable. Fake Tan Guy comes out to talk to me – he brings a schedule and tells me I’d be far better of with one of their membership offers. I sustain my incredulous demeanor throughout his pitch, one lone eyebrow raised in defense against his terribly charming smile.

Fake Tan Guy then asks me silly questions like what type of yoga I do. I should know these things? My cousin teaches me whatever she feels like. I pick a random, vaguely familiar sounding style off the sheet Fake Tan Guy has kindly given me. He looks relieved. I start to feel like the lone girl on an oil tanker.

Fake Tan Guy shows me around. We look at a room full of Pilates benches which could double as torture racks they’ve got so many pulleys and chains. Clearly designed for all the closet masochists out there. I watch some buff dude pull and press himself like a piece of saltwater taffy. I only exert myself that much during sex, and I don’t need a separate engineering degree to manage that.

We move on to the yoga room which has a giant Buddha, which would be lovely if the place didn’t look like a hall of mirrors. Fake Tan Guy tells me I’ll be able to see myself from every possible angle. *shudder* That’s a plus, I say but fortunately my sarcasm escapes him.

We wander around the rest of the facility until we get to the locker rooms. Fake Tan Guy leaves me to explore those in privacy. They have better showers than I do, though this is not hard considering the water pressure in my flat is flaccid at best. I just like using that word: flaccid. I’m tempted to join the gym just for the eucalyptus scented waves of steam that float about me. This is their secret market technique – mildly hallucinogenic sauna fumes.

So anyway, having ascertained that there aren’t any cute half-naked people for me to look at I meet up with Fake Tan Guy. He gives me forms to fill out, including a medical clearance form which of course I fail miserably. Thanks PTSD. I’d have to get a doctor’s note to join the place, and who the hell can be bothered with that? I just wanted to do a yoga class for goodness’ sake. Thankfully this gives me an excuse to escape without making any commitments seeing as the casual rates have now been made to look positively cheap.

I swiped a couple of pens on the way out, as I’m want to do. I figure they can afford it. I’ll try somewhere else next week – there are at least 4 other options for yoga classes within a few blocks of me. Ahh, the joys of capitalism.