I had it written on my desk calendar in red pen.
It was a task I had been avoiding for weeks now, but today was officially the last day I could put it off.
I was calling to quit, you see, and if I left it one more minute I would clock over to a new month and new fees.
Biting my lip, I dialed the number and followed the prompts.
“Existing members, please press 2” – Oh god, what was I doing?
“To speak to someone about personal training, please press 1” – Help! Was this the death to my personal fitness?
“Hi, this is Connor, can I have your membership number?” – *WAILS*
Like any break-up, the conversation was short and shitty. I dripped with guilt and apologies, and he scrambled desperately to keep me, offering to pause my membership for free.
I was a loyal member for seven years, he said, was there anything he could do to make me stay?
Alas, I was resolute. After seven long years of treadmills, yelling teachers, music videos, and anxiety-inducing techno music; I was ready for a change.
I was done.