Monday morning hit this week like a bag of bricks. Shortly after having my anxiety attack articulating the amount of endless work emails awaiting my arrival,  I began to slouch in my chair. A loud pop echo’s through out the cubicle.  “Oh my heavens, what was that!?” exhales Martha. Good god all mighty, the shrill voice of middle aged Martha is the last thing my pounding headache needs. In hopes to find the culprit behind this noise, the “Fab 5” cubicle Martha refers us too begins to play Blues fucking Clues. Happy Monday to me.

Shortly into the investigation, Martha’s keen eye notices that the button on my khaki pants is gone. The cubicle grows silent as each member of the fab fucking five slowly realizes I am the culprit of the noise. Due to an overabundance of pressure on my lower mid section aka my gut: the button was propelled off of my pants into the abyss of the office thus creating the alarming noise. Martha begins to offer her dieting regimen by shoving a barley drink into my face.

Depression overcomes me followed by a full on vexation over the fact that I used to be in shape! I was once desirable, chicks were not repulsed by me. Now, I’m an over weight piece of shit, only suited for slouching at a desk, doing one’s taxes and disappointing women. Enough is enough. In hopes for a better life, I googled local gyms near me. LA Fitness exploded on the monitor. I decided to put my number in as a potential new member, in hopes to just to inquire more information, nothing more than that. Mistake number one. Within 30 seconds, the phone rings. Being in customer service, naturally I don’t answer it. Like clock work, a second calls comes through. Again being in customer service, I don’t answer. Holy shit, a third call comes in, at this point I am under the assumption someone in my family died. Using my best customer service tone ” Can I fucking help you!?” Turns out, it’s Brock from the local LA Fitness following up on my inquiry I made 1 minute and 17 seconds ago. This guy was like Jordan fucking Belfort on the phone: “Brother, your life is about to be changed and we’re going to do it together!” relunctely, I decided to make an in person appointment with Brock. Mistake number two. It might as well have been a fucking colonoscopy.  The experience in itself was the true pit of misery. From having my BMI, body fat content taken and pretty much running an NFL combine; I felt like Jodi Foster in the Accused.

My sales rep, Brock,  might as well been White fucking Goodman from Globo Gym. Brock got me  good. Before I could catch my breath from the rigorous physical tests he put me through, that snake oil salesmen tried to lock me into 3 months. While Brock went to grab the paperwork, I ran for my life and sprinted to the parking lot. 

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Written by DGD