Leaving The Gym

I left my gym today. Not my wife or my job or the country; just my gym. The usual story- I don’t use it often enough to justify the monthly buggering administered to my account, and now we’re moving further away, it makes even less sense. So, I went in to cancel my membership, foolishly expecting that to be a simple task, but as it transpires, they require notice in writing. Three whole months of it. Had I possessed a monocle powerful enough to magnify the small-print to a readable size, they informed me, I would have seen an explanation of the notice period stated plainly and clearly beneath some ominous references to my immortal soul. More the fool me.

So, here is a copy of the letter I was forced to write:

Dear Esporta,

How are you? I am fine. Firstly, I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for year upon year of great-value service and rock bottom prices. It has been a privilege, nay, a honour, to have been a part of this sports facility these past few years. Many’s the time I have had to bite down hard on my well-chewed lip to keep from collapsing in hysterical pride somewhere between the dog turd on the door mat and the unflushable toilet upon which I perch myself to regain control of my emotions.

As I watch my monthly direct debit soar majestically towards triple figures, I can’t help but mumble humble thanks to the Man-God that contrived to install the out-door pool I’ve never been in, without which I might never have been dragged so vigorously in the direction of bankruptcy. Every so often, on a crisp, fresh morning, I like to sit out there on the poolside patio and watch the mist rising in gentle heaves, then dissipating into the ether like a well-crafted metaphor for my hard-earned cash. Quite breathtaking.

I’m sure it did come in useful this last, wet year, and I was genuinely tempted to try it out, but the indoor pool is more than cold enough to assuage my masochistic yearnings, and I’ve come to fondly enjoy the state of febrile catalepsy in which it leaves me after a brisk dip. I’m a sentimental old fool, I know, but there’s something familiar, something comforting about swimming through the genital hairs of people who have probably cancelled their membership and lived out the generous three month notice period by the time their pubic lice abandon their vessel and jump ship to join my own. You just don’t get that same effect outside; I think they must not like swimming through leaves.

Nevertheless, the time has come for me to say so long to the free hair bleaching with every swim, to having my trunks come out a lighter shade each time I use the Jacuzzi and to having my hard-earned summer tan peeled back to the bone by the river of Domestos through which we are supposed to float. Farewell to the ‘Lockery’ I’ve played so keenly over the years (picking a locker in a well-lit part of the changing room and hoping no-one crowbars it open while I queue for a treadmill, but knowing that this time, ‘it could be me’).

I shall miss you all deeply, but I feel the time is right for me to leave. Don’t shed a tear just yet, though; I’ve still got three whole months of membership left before my notice period expires. That’s a quarter of a year; more notice than you need give to move out of your house, quit your job or book a flight to the far side of the moon!

But until then, I thank you for all you have done me for, and wish you the very best. Take care of yourself; I love you.

Kindest regards,

A D Somethingson