I signed up for a new gym recently that has over 13 locations with a growing name throughout my state. It was empowering; I thought that by joining, I had somehow placed myself into a new level of fitness, much more elite and serious than my 20 year YMCA membership (since '96, holla!) and the pathetic athletic center facilities at my college. The membership even included one free 30-minute personal training session! Yes yes yes please!
Of course I capitalized, who doesn't love free sh*t? For me, it was a fun 30 minutes and I was laughing at myself the whole way through. It was hilarious: I didn't understand how to use certain machines and pathetically struggled to lift weights while this expert made it look so easy. Either way, after the training, I was so full of hopes and goals that my trainer encouraged me to form with him. Together, we joked around as we walked over to the front desk, where he cut me off mid-sentence.
"Alright, Christie, I'm going to introduce you to my good friend Ricky to discuss pricing."
Huh?
I'd been directed to the head sales director and was currently cornered in between the two of them. Wait, did he even hear a word of what I just said? There was no escape; I'd been dropped off in front of this random person with whom I had never met; and yet he knew all about me. The window of the computer in front of him displayed a female prototype-esque avatar with the same color hair, eyes, skin tone and body size as me already preset before I even showed up. My health information glared before us both; the numbers of my body mass index, heart rate, disease and cancer risk, as well as fat count. It was a little weird.
He was nice and we talked, or better, I let him talk me through the different programs that I have the ability to sign up for through my membership. All would help me reach my goals, either accelerated or over time depending on how much you pay. I was shocked to find prices range from $99/ month to $300/ month.
Oh and guess which one he tried to recommend me?
I was their bait, they caught me on a hook; I had just spent 30 minutes of my life training with a professional and I was hungry for more. If I knew any better for myself, I would sign up right away and get working.
But I declined. And no, I'm not going to spit to you some monologue about loving your body. That's not why.
Before my eyes, the entire staff became enthused with making a sale through me. They already had my credit card on file; and with a click of a mouse I could be en route to my fitness goals. It was that easy. Maybe this wouldn't irk many people--I know I am super sensitive, but my gut was screaming NO. FAKE.
I want to reach my goals, yes. But I know I can get there on my own, too. I don't like considering my fitness a commodity. I guess this was all to be expected, because after all, this ain't no YMCA.
But the irking aspect to this is that this is what business is about. The personalized aspects of a service all come with a fixed price that is set a bit higher than your average Joe's (or Christie's) membership.
Just as I capitalized on the free sh*t gig, the free sh*t tried to capitalize on me. It's unfortunate to realize there aren't many aspects of American culture that escape the luring realm of perks and rewards with exclusive memberships.
I couldn't get out of there quick enough to go running on a trail outside. Sometimes all you need is fresh air and a warm breeze on your face with the sun gleaming down on you; compared to a sweaty, packed gym, where you're counting the dollars spent on each visit.
