We have a local YMCA here in Scottsbluff, NE. I didn’t have access to a Y growing up in rural Montana. In fact, the Y here is the first one I had ever been to. I had heard of the YMCA as a kid, and I thought of the Y as kind of a place where a fellow who was down on his luck could get a cheap (or even free) room until he got back on his feet. Apparently, this isn’t what the modern YMCA offers (at least not in the USA).
Scottsbluff has a country club for the wealthy.
The Scotts Bluff Country Club is the kind of place where the rich can go to get away from the common filth of society (you know, the rest of us) and surround themselves with fellow rich people with whom to golf and dine and talk about what rich people talk about. I’m not rich, so I don’t know exactly what they talk about, but I’m assuming they talk about money… and how much those of us without a lot of money suck. At least, that’s what I’d talk about if I was rich.
The YMCA here in Scottsbluff is kind of like a country club for the middle class. Oh sure, they have some sort of reduced-rate program for those at a lower income level, they just don’t advertise it very prominently… and they don’t really tell you what it is. I guess you have to go in and ask so they can look down at you to convince you that you really don’t belong at the Scottsbluff Family YMCA.
My family has a membership to the Y; not because we can afford it, but because it is a benefit my employer offers. Hell, it’s almost $500 a year for a family membership. I don’t know if I could afford that on my own. Not only do they get you on the membership fees, they charge for everything extra that the Y provides. Want to have your kid play t-ball? Only $12 if you are a member. How about you and the wife doing the co-ed volleyball? Only $15 per person… if you are members. Yeah, I grew up thinking the Y was a place where those without a lot of money could socialize and get fit. I was wrong. The Y is a country club for those who can’t quite afford the real country club.
I go to our YMCA almost daily. I have done this for a few years now. I go and I get on an elliptical and I sweat and breath really heavy for about 30 minutes. I started doing this in an attempt to control my blood pressure and to lose a little weight. I burn 500 to 600 calories and get my heart rate up to around 170 beats per minute almost every day. I have not lost a single pound, and my blood pressure was 170/130 when medical people put me on blood pressure medication a few weeks ago. So, it looks like I go to the Y for nothing. Well, nothing except to see all of the skinny people and steroid-heads walk around looking at themselves in the multitude of mirrors that surround the circuit room. I hate these people. With a passion. Here I am, sweating my ass off (in theory, not in reality) and bringing myself to the verge of a heart attack almost every day for the past three years in an attempt to squeeze a couple more years out of my miserable existence, and I’m surrounded by skinny people in their designer work-out gear
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and steroid-filled muscle-heads in their… well, their muscles and crap!
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Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of fatties like me sweating at the Y as well, but why in the hell would I waste time looking at them.
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If I wanted to look at a fattie all day, I could stay home and look in the mirror. No, I want to create the most severe case on envy imaginable. I want to look at the people who I will never resemble. I want to make myself feel as worthless and insignificant as possible. After all, hate is what drives me, so the more hate I harbor, the worse I feel, and the more I feel like I’m accomplishing what I was put on this earth to do… whatever that is.
Man, if being surrounded by the fit middle-class at the YMCA can make me feel this crappy, imagine what being surrounded by the snotty rich at the actual country club would make me feel like? Especially if I was in a position where the rich snotties could really talk down to me? Maybe like a dishwasher… or a janitorial position? Yeah, that’s it.
Some rich doctor would run into me in the hall and he’d be all like, “Boy, there appears to be a toilet clogged in the men’s room. Get on it, post-haste. Cheerio!”
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And I, of course, would get right on Dr. Snotty’s clogged toilet!
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And the hate would grow!
Man, I wonder if they are hiring? I put my current level of mid-life-crisis misery on par with about the 5th ring of hell. A servitude-type position at the country club could move me all the way up to the 9th ring, and the crisis could be complete!