I awakened to another summer morning, not motivated to do much at all. The doctor still hasn’t called to set up an appointment. My hand is still going numb. But at least I’m taking another day off from work.

I slept in and pulled myself out of bed. It was a struggle to leave the apartment. Just imagine having to do my job.

I drove to the gym yesterday and signed up. The salesperson, I’ll refer to him as, showed me around the facility like I knew he would. I just wanted to be in and out, sign up and leave, but the salesperson had to do his job and walk me through every corner of the place as if one had never been seen. But I was patient, polite, inquisitive. I saw the fitness room, where they do Zumba classes, the fitness band room, the cycling room with a disco ball, the weight room, the personal trainer room, and lastly the cardio room, where I believe I would spend most of my time.

And then he led me back to his desk where I knew what was to come: not just me signing up for the gym but him trying to upsell me to a personal trainer, which I wasn’t interested in at all. He was eager to offer me a machine that would measure my body fat and levels of nutrition: too much information. I was better off ignorant. But he insisted that I try it out. There were three membership levels: the basic, in which I would use the equipment at that gym only for ten dollars a month, the fit, where I would get to use the equipment at multiple gyms and set up lessons with a personal trainer, and then the max, which would offer all of those things plus access to that nutrition/body fat machine, which I didn’t need. I chose the fit level because I just wanted to use the equipment at multiple locations. But he kept trying to upsell me to the max fit which I knew he would do. I saw it all coming.

“What are your fitness goals?” he asked.

I didn’t see that question coming. It made me uncomfortable. Did I really want to expose my insecurities to that kid? I gave him the vaguest answer. “I would like to get in shape.”

After the tenth time I said no to a personal trainer, he made that move where he called over his manager who so happened to be working at the next desk. A guy named Buddy. What does that tell you? He was big, and not with muscles, and covered in tattoos. One of the tattoos said I Want to Kill You on his forearm. And he spoke so fast that I couldn’t keep up. It was a tactic for me to say yes. Every time I said no, Buddy would offer to lessen the cost of the program. I would’ve had to pay $144 biweekly for four weeks with a personal trainer. I kept having to say no. Buddy kept going a fourth and fifth time. I knew what to expect. Right now I’m just not committed, I kept saying. And finally he surrendered, and I won.

I just can’t see myself with a personal trainer. I have enough commitments already. The reality is I don’t need someone telling me what I should or shouldn’t eat: no healhy fats, lean fats, supplements such as creatine, et cetera. Maybe someday, but I’m not ready to buy all that crap at the store. I left the gym, and maybe I’ll go today if I feel motivated.