Planet Fitness

William Musgrove

I’ve been searching my whole life for an airlock. An airlock to eject the bad habits. An airlock to eject the self-doubt, the giving up. Now that I’ve found one, all I have left to jettison is a letter canceling my gym membership at Planet Fitness. Why am I canceling? Well, I’m no longer on the planet.

The self-help aliens arrived at my lowest: New Year’s Eve, no one to kiss, no resolutions to carry me through the first few months of the new year. Their spaceship, a glowing dinner plate, hovered above my apartment, and I thought, “No way they’re abducting me. I’m not abductable.” Then I began listing all the people in my building and all the ways they’d provide a better understanding of humanity than me.

But they were there for me.

Turns out, self-help guru is the most prolific job throughout the universe.

Aboard their spaceship, the aliens, who look like Dr. Phil if Dr. Phil was made of pure energy, told me I needed to let go of all my physical and emotional attachments, so I told them about my gym membership, about how they don’t allow you to cancel over the phone or through email. No, you had to go in or mail a letter. And since I was light years away from the closest Planet Fitness, a letter was my only option. The aliens replicated a pen and a piece of paper and left me to complete the final step to nirvana.

The letter began: Dearest Jeff.

Jeff managed the Planet Fitness I went to. He had those muscles that sit atop your shoulder blades like bookends preventing you from becoming a bobblehead. He’d patrol the gym flexing and shouting motivational slogans at his red-faced patrons.

To say I ran on the treadmill would be a bit generous. It was more like in-place pacing. The treadmills had televisions built into their consoles. I’d watch the soap opera Guiding Light for an hour then go home, not sweaty enough to need a shower. My lack of work ethic caught Jeff’s attention. When he saw me slacking, he’d flick the speed up on the treadmill, point, and say, “I believe in you.”

Everyone hated the guy.

Once, coming back from the locker room after changing into my workout clothes, I heard gasping. It was Jeff. Lying on a weight bench, a barbell pressed against his barrel chest, suffocating him. I ran, actually ran, over to the bench and tilted the barbell so he could slide out from underneath it. The barbell thunked on the gym floor, and I fought the urge to utter Jeff’s catchphrase.

Guiding Light started in a few minutes, so I got on with my workout. During the first commercial break, I noticed Jeff wasn’t making his regular rounds. Head down, he was staring at the weight bench, pinching himself. The guy was annoying, but he believed he was doing good. He believed he was making us better.

I gestured to him, and he walked over. I offered him a headphone. He wiped it off before sticking it in his ear. The show came back on, and I explained to him who the villains were, who was cheating on who, who was a clone, who was back from the dead. Normal soap opera stuff. Jeff’s muscles relaxed, transforming him into what he was, what we all are, just another dude, and I wished I’d brought snacks.

At the same time, the self-help aliens were zooming around the universe preaching their perfection, their oneness with nothingness. They’re born forever happy, which I now realize is a crock of shit. How can they be happy without occasionally failing to lift a barbell? How can they be happy without wasting a morning or two bingeing hours upon hours of soap operas? Can anyone be happy without these things?

Doubtful.

I used to think there was enough good in the universe so the bad didn’t seem so bad, but the opposite is true. There’s enough bad in the universe so the good sparkles like light from a dying star that takes millions of years to reach you. 

I shred my cancellation letter and climb into the airlock. After entering the coordinates for Earth, I launch myself toward Planet Fitness. Through the escape pod’s lone window, I watch the shrinking self-help aliens bow like they know I did the right thing.

Will Musgrove is a writer and journalist from Northwest Iowa. He received an MFA from Minnesota State University, Mankato. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Timber, The McNeese Review, Tampa Review, and elsewhere. Connect on Twitter at @Will_Musgrove or at williammusgrove.com.