Stranded presents an open letter to the distant absentee landlord owners of, oh, just some random gym, not the one I occasionally whore about in, oh no, not that one, easily identifiable as it may well be by now what with all the posting I do when I'm drunk and stoned and generally uncaring and also because of all the people who go to the gym to whom I may have revealed the address of my bleugh on the basis of their being able to read and possibly even think.
'Look, look, I'm good at other stuff! I know you already think I'm great at shouting 'Circles!' And 'Engage the core!' but look, read this! See? I'm funny and dark and mysterious too! Approve of me! Love the Gimme!'
So not that gym. Some other gym.
Dear Absentee Gym Guys,
Your gym is great. I love it. I particularly love this wonderful manchild who comes in and teaches spin a couple of times a week. He's great. You should give him more money. But thing is, I do have one or two iggly wiggly niggly little points that I would like to make in relation to how you might better improve your service.
In the men's changing room there is a shower area, and in this shower area there is a shower, and in this shower (first on the left as you enter the area) there is a soap dispenser. This soap dispenser has not worked for more than three years. One may remove the lid and take out a big scoop of yucky skin cancering soap but as far as its primary function goes, the dispensing of said soap, it is something of a failure. For three years this alleged soap dispenser has been naught but a soap holder. This makes me sad. It makes the soap sad. And there is no place in a gym for said sad soap.
I'm not certain if these two points are holistically, or if you will, karmically connected but for almost precisely the same amount of time the flashing coloured lights in the spin studio have been out of order. Participants are required to spin in almost total darkness or in a hideous mother-in-law kitchen fluorescent brightness that hightlights every blemish, every stain of sweat and every O face on show. The most wonderful thing about the wonderful spinner guy is that he allows the spinners, most likely in violation of any number of health and safety regulations, to spin in the dark.
The sauna, which is rarely at a temperature above room, has, for just eighteen months it must be said, been labouring under the nomenclature 'AUNA'. I do not know where the 'S' has gone and I have no reason to believe that it is at the bottom of a pile of toys in a four year old's bedroom. Perhaps someone could paint a new 'S' in?
The pool, which seems now to close at least once a week, for a minimum of three days, is never, ever correctly chlorinated, unless it is correctly chlorinated when it is closed. Don't ask me how I know this. I just do. When open, wildly it veers between tastily toxic highs and freshly fecaled lows.
In the last three years, (three years again - three, it's a magic number) there has been no occasion on which you have failed to have in your employ at least one receptionist breathtaking in both rudeness and lack of basic acceptance of the concept of customer service. At present we have squeaky foreign rude, but before now there has been super camp bitchy rude, mind-numbingly stupid or obtuse or both rude and most impressively, considering their position as 'Front of House Manager' all-out psychotic scream at you if you have forgotten your membership card rude.
The leg press, never, ever works.
With the exception of these six small issues, attendance at your gym is always an unmitigated pleasure. And I really, really like that spin guy I was telling you about. And his blog. I like that too.
Gimme A. Minute.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009