I used to belong to the pretty gym, where the machines were new, the lightbulbs were bright, and the guy's locker room was clean. The members were pretty and the staff regularly oogled them and each other. But the management created clerical and administrative moments where staff interrupted members to allegedly update their contact information, but really to upsell you into a personal training package which I didn't want. So I quit, because Team I Hate Cancer believes that "outside is free." That was February 2015.
December's cold snap convinced me that I needed an inside space in which to shed some pounds that I put on while sidelined with a chronic issue. So I joined the shitty gym, where the same treadmill has been broken since I joined, the lights are inspired by a prison, and the locker room smells like a frat house. While registering as a member, the staff person didn't ask my name until he read my American Express card. The bubbly personal training director attempted to save the experience but the torpedo had already exploded. Neither person has greeted me since with more than a nod or a grunt. However, because no one greets or bothers the members, there's no one to ask about the free classes, personal training options, or why the treadmill is still broken.
It's amazing; nothing gets fixed and sold. In fact, the same staff person blares his Tupac-inspired Spotify playlist every night while trolling the internet for a new job.
But no one bothers me while I am working off those Christmas cookies.