When I first sought a gym in New York, I wrote a piece about the whole process, approaching the situation like I would if I was choosing someone worthy of dating. After much debating, I eventually settled on someone named Equinox.
During our memorable three-year relationship, I overlooked the occasional lack of hot water, watered-down Kiehl's toiletries, leaky ceilings, phone stalking by managers, and other less than luxurious occurrences.
Despite the sporadic kerfuffles at the gym, when I decided to leave Equinox and move on to Pilates, yoga, swimming and occasional starvation for the sake of fitness elsewhere, I felt like our past—and the thousands of dollars I paid in membership dues—was strong enough to lend to a reasonably civil break-up.
WRONG.
I was instead treated to a heaping helping of the tacky dismisiveness and nonchalant cluelessness that plagues the service industry these days. So, in light of the piece I wrote about desperately seeking a gym several years ago, I've decided that the retort to my less than graceful exit from Equinox should be in the form of a break-up letter because, let's face it, the bastard won't give me the time of day now, much less a face-to-face confrontation.
Dear Equinox,
I'm so sad that things have ended as they did. I really wanted to remain friends. I mean, after all you've helped me stay in shape for the last several years and those fabulous pools of yours at Greenwich and Time Warner were the stuff dreams are made of—even when I was sometimes sharing them with 60 year-old women who hadn't managed to wash their make-up off and obnoxious turds who have no idea how to share a lane.
You've introduced me to Pilates, to spinning, to kickboxing. You've enabled me to burn calories in the company of Mary-Louise Parker, Sam Champion, Cheyenne Jackson, Giuliana Rancic, Sean P. Puff Diddy Daddy Combs, and so many other glamorous New Yorkers (the tacky ones were just as fun to watch, too, even if all they did was stand in front of mirrors, fart, look at their abs and talk on their cell phones).
Things just haven't been the same lately, though. I think the rift between us began when you phone-harassed my sister and my best friend in an attempt to get them to join your club. Apart from annoying, it was just creepy and sort of desperate.
When I told you I was going to leave you, you couldn't even look me in the eye. You scribbled something on a form and, without telling me you were doing so, charged my credit card 11 days before you were supposed to, saying "Oh, that's just what we do." With that dismissive gesture, you took all of our beautiful experiences together and shat on them like an inbred lapdog would on a $175 throw pillow. I totally felt like just a notch in your elliptical machine, you bastard.
Maybe we could have gotten back together. But to get me back you'd have to do a hell of a lot of groveling...and you'd also have to seat me next to Mary-Louise in spin class. Then and only then would I MAYBE I'd think about it. Until then, you're just Bally's with a better haircut.
Trying so hard to write "Fondly" without gagging on hypocrisy,
X
