The Existential Guilt of My Gym Membership

If I cancel it, does it mean I’ve given up?

Guided by the encouragement of my former roommate, a terrifyingly fit individual with an indefatigable enthusiasm for physical fitness, I signed up for a membership at the gym down the street from my apartment. I paid $200 for the enrollment fee, the initiation fee and a mysterious “one-time only” member’s fee, signed some paperwork and locked in a very cheap rate: $20.89 a month for the privilege of running to nowhere on a treadmill next to everyone else while watching Rupaul’s Drag Race on my iPad and trying not to die.

I went for a while with some consistency, dragging myself out of bed an hour early and throwing myself into some semblance of a workout with little enthusiasm. I ran on the treadmill; I did 3 minutes on stair climber. I squatted, hands clasped as if in prayer in front of my chest for four sets of fifteen in front of a mirror, using my own reflection as motivation to just do this so I could go home and make toast. I had a routine that worked for a while, but summer came, hot and heavy and humid, and the idea of wrestling my legs into spandex and walking through soupy air to a basement that always smelled faintly of Lysol and body odor became less appealing as time went on.

It’s been months now and I cannot remember the last time I went to the gym. I still pay for it; that $20.89 zips out of my bank account every month. In the grips of a financial panic, I looked at the draconian contract I signed without really thinking many months ago and realized that I’m locked in, unless I move away or break a leg and provide a doctor’s note. The gym membership is mine. I’m paying for it. I think about going to the gym every week or so and immediately want to die; the cycle repeats itself monthly and that money I pay is my penance.

What I should do is cancel it and pay whatever fee I’m sure they have. But giving up on the gym and admitting to myself that I hate working out feels like an inglorious defeat. It’s failure, the ultimate fuck you to my body and my health and the beginning of a rapid descent into sloth and stretch pants. My pride won’t let me do it, but the sliver of my brain that’s rational knows that I should.

It’s easy to get locked in a cycle of avoidance. I’m excellent at telling myself why I don’t have time to do something right now — there is work to do or groceries to buy or plants to water. The cat threw up on the rug. I have to sort through my house pants right now, this certainly can’t wait. There’s time, is what I’m saying. But I don’t want to go to the gym and so I don’t but I still pay for it just the same.

As it stands, it’s a literal waste of money, more so than any of the other frippery I buy, like magazines and lipstick. But if I cancel, I admit defeat. Somehow, that’s worse.

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