First, let me start by saying this is a good story. Second, I want to let you know that I MAY be a little overly dramatic in my recounting of these events (Hey, I’m the writer… I can do what I want). But, all events are real. Though quarantine sanctions are lifting, I think we could all use a good, funny story. So, let me tell you about that time I was treated like a terrorist at Lifestyle Fitness.
The Story
It all started over the Thanksgiving holiday when I flew back to Michigan to visit my family and watch the Wolverines get destroyed by Zero State (Dear Lord, enough of this losing streak already!). As we drove home from the airport, my brother-in-law harmlessly suggested we hit the gym in the morning before Number One Niece had to go to work.
“Sounds, great,” I said.
Let me preemptively say that if people in the world get their kicks by picking on other people, I’m not your best target. Being stubborn, crabby, and a little self-righteous is part of my genetic makeup. You know that person who would let you cut in line? I’m NOT that person, I’ve never been that person, and I will call you out onto the carpet without even the slightest hesitation.
Contrarily, I’m not saying I always handle things well; admittedly I don’t. I’m pretty much an emotional ball at times. However, out of all the people in the world, if you wanted to pick on someone, I’m probably not your best choice.
But, I digress…
Back to Lifestyle Fitness
So, we get up in the morning, and my brother-in-law, Number One, and I all piled in the Ford (I mentioned, Michigan, right?) for the 12-minute drive to the Lifestyle Fitness (not their real name) gym complex.
I didn’t bring a padlock home, thus, I only brought a water bottle and my mp3 player with me to the gym. We head in and my brother-in-law swipes his membership card. The desk lady directs us to the opposite side of the counter because I’m a guest.
I patiently wait for my turn and step up to one of the tablets set in an angled holder on the counter.
The ID
“Can I see your picture ID?” an older woman with a ponytail asks.
“I didn’t bring it with me,” I said turning to look at my brother-in-law.
“I’m sorry, but we can’t let you in without a picture ID.”
I’m about ready to ask for a manager (#xtra) but decide that I’ll sit this one out.
“Is there a place I can sit while they work out?” I inquired.
“No, I can’t even let you in the building.”
Hold up. First, if I was a terrorist, I’m in the building at this point, so you missed the boat, lady. Second, my sister and her family have been members of this gym for YEARS. I didn’t just roll in off the street carrying a tattered piece of cardboard. A member vouched for me. Does she think I hatched a master plan and lured my brother-in-law into my sleeper cell of gym terrorists? What is wrong with people?
BUT, before I could speak, my brother-in-law, who could see for miles what would have happened if he’d given me one more second to respond, quickly said to Number One, “You go work out,” and he turned to the ponytailed woman, “We’ll go home and get it.”
So, we do. He and I drive twelve minutes home for me to grab the ID and then another 12 minutes back to the gym. “I feel like a terrorist at Lifestyle Fitness,” I say to the rolled-up window.
The Terrorist at Lifestyle Fitness
AND… we’re back at the counter and ushered around to the other side. A different woman now performed the check-ins. She tells me to fill out the waiver online and helps me with a few questions.
She NEVER asked for my picture ID.
Okay, fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.
I ask her if I need anything else, and she tells me I’m all set. I’m told there are locks on the lockerroom doors that I can set, which is awesome because now I need to lock up my unnecessary ID.
Good. Great.
I go to the locker room, but the lockers don’t work unless you stick a membership card in the back of the door, which I don’t have. So, I now have to go back to the front desk.
It’s over. I blow my top.
Hence, I grab my stuff and stalk out of there heading briskly to the front desk. Along the way, I come across a woman standing at a computer. I stop.
“Can I help you?” she innocently asks.
“I’m upset,” I say.
The Dark Room
She guides me into a little office behind her and closes the door we walked through and another door off a separate hallway. Another woman sits behind a desk with a lamp. Dim light fills the room.
This is why I’m not a terrorist. No self-respecting terrorist would let themselves get trapped in a small, dark room. I pay no attention to my surroundings and start in, “I was treated like a terrorist by the front desk staff.” Literally…
The woman listened to the story with ease, apologized, and gave me my own temporary membership card. I don’t think she actually said, “We don’t want you to feel like a terrorist,” but that was the overarching message. We were still able to salvage a workout.
Incidentally, someone from the gym called several weeks after my return trip home to find out how “my experience was at Lifestyle Fitness,” and I was gracious enough to share this experience with her. I’m sure I’m now on a watchlist. Haha.
Love, K.
Author of Ten Iron Principles, Contributor in The Power to Make a Difference
