To My 2026 Gym Membership

My most expensive form of self-deception

Image licensed by author from Envato.

Dear Purple-and-Yellow Monument to My January Delusions,

You lurk in my wallet like a laminated accusation, wedged between my library card (also neglected) and a CVS receipt from 2019 that I’m convinced contains important tax information. Nine months we’ve been together, and you’ve gotten less use than my college French.

Remember January 3rd? I strutted through your doors wearing compression shorts I’d panic-bought on Amazon at 2 AM, clutching a motivational water bottle that screamed “HYDRATE OR DIE-DRATE.” I lasted eighteen minutes before fleeing when a woman half my size deadlifted what appeared to be an entire Honda Civic.

Since then, you’ve billed my account with the precision of a Swiss watch and the judgment of my Catholic grandmother. Every month, that $10.99 appears like a financial ghost, whispering Remember abs?

I imagine you gossiping with other neglected memberships:

“Linda from 2B hasn’t shown up since February.”

“At least she made it to February. Brad bought premium massage chair access and visited zero times.”

“Does he know those chairs exist?”

“He does not.”

You’ve become my most expensive form of self-deception. Each of my three visits cost roughly $37, making you the priciest locker room tour in the city. On my last visit, the elliptical and I locked eyes, I noted its seventeen resistance settings, and we agreed it was best if I left. I stress-ate a sleeve of saltines in the parking lot. The elliptical said nothing. It has seen things.

Having you in my wallet is weirdly comforting. When coworkers discuss weekend hiking, I caress your plastic edges and think, I too am athletically inclined, while secretly planning to spend Saturday reorganizing my sock drawer by thread count.

The truth is, we both know how this ends. I’ll keep scrolling Instagram fitness accounts eating cereal for dinner, occasionally Googling “10-minute abs” at 11 PM and feeling virtuous about the research. You’ll keep arriving in my inbox, quiet and punctual, like a bill from my own conscience.

So thank you for being my monthly subscription to pure fantasy. My participation trophy for trying.

I’ve earned you.

Yours in perpetual delusion,

Diane Thompson

Your Most Loyal Non-Customer

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