One week from today, my LA Fitness location will close it’s smelly, smelly doors for the last time, and I’ll move over to a different LA Fitness. The old place now has a poster that claims they’re “relocating” to the new location, even though the new place has been there for years. LA Fitness – where apparently they take members for real rubes.
Just in case I don’t like the new location, I did my due diligence and checked out the local 24-Hour Fitness.
Strike one: I just wanted a quick tour, but 24-Hour made my enter my name, phone number and email onto a touch-screen. The manager reassured me they would never hassle me, but I still went with my go-to pseudonym: Lance Manion. Plus a fake phone number and email. (My apologies to lancemanion69@gmail.com for your upcoming tsunami of membership emails.)
The manager showed me around, often referring to me as “Lance.” I figured I’d pulled a real fast one, until I realized I probably knew several guys that worked out there, and feared at any moment one of them would shout out “Hey Matt!”, and then the manager would stick his foot up my ass.
Strike two: the gym’s building is converted movie theater, which makes for a cockamamie layout. It’s constant navigating. After using the bench press, if you want to use a chest machine, pack a snack, because you’re hoofing it up stairs and over to the other side of the place. F that.
Strike three: the parking garage is compact-car friendly, and not conducive to my semi-large SUV, and according to several Yelp comments, I should expect my fair share of door dings. Pass.
Final analysis: I’m Bruce Willis walking away in slow motion from 24-Hour Fitness exploding behind me.
