Admitting Defeat

(Post by Tracy)

I’m sitting at home, alone on my couch. I have a headache coming on. I’m about to pour myself what will probably only be my first glass of wine for the night.

It was a tough afternoon. I broke up with the Y today.

I know what you’re thinking: How can you be so upset about ending it with the YMCA? Weren’t you guys only together since, like, August? And you barely saw each other anyway. And I know, you’re right.

It’s just that I had such high hopes for us. I really thought this was going to be something special. I imagined all the evening swims we’d have together, and Saturday mornings. The Y always brought out the best in me, and when we were together, I felt so good and so good about myself.

I guess that’s the thing, though. We were rarely actually together. Neither of us made the other a true priority. Neither of us took the effort to make time for one another. And ultimately what did us in was that neither of us was willing to work around our busy schedules and try to make it work.

How can the Y be so pig-headed, expecting me to fit my workouts in around their child’s swim classes and their water aerobics? Shouldn’t the Y know by now that I work during the day, and having open swim only during the morning hours just isn’t realistic?

Yes, I do admit some fault. In the beginning, during the honeymoon stage, I would have dinner early and stay up late just to fit in a quick visit during their (ridiculously late) evening lap swim hours. I guess I should have realized what the Y was from the start, not hoping I could change it, not telling myself, Just go with it for now, eventually it’ll be better! Because isn’t that what every girl in love with the wrong man always says?

To be honest, this has been on my mind for a while now. I’ve been distant, half-heartedly thinking from time to time, I wonder how the Y would be tonight, only to sit on the couch- or worse- do a workout DVD at home instead of paying a visit. Finally, it was last week that I decided I needed to be honest with myself and honest with the Y. I needed to end this (ironically) unhealthy relationship before I was drained of everything I (financially) had.

And so I called. And can you believe what the Y said? You can’t do that over the phone. You have to do that in person.

After all that? That’s the way you’re going to treat me? This was just ridiculous, just too much.

And so I did it today. I went in person. I showed up, like the mature adult that I am, to break it off.

The man behind the counter was cordial enough. Was I “moving to a different Y location,” he asked? “No, there’s no one else,” I told him (while, to be really honest, I was remembering another attractive Y I’ve visited – only once, I swear – that keeps one lane open during all hours just for lap swimmers).

“Hey, why couldn’t you just fax me this form to fill out?” I asked, trying to sound as neutral as I could, irritated that he had forced me off my butt, during my free time, to go through with this painful (inconvenient) process.

“We do it that way to make sure it’s really you who’s doing it.” Seriously? I thought.

“We wouldn’t want to accept a cancelation from someone who is just saying they’re you on the phone, maybe someone playing a prank on you. This way we can check your ID, make sure you are who you say you are, blah, blah, blah.” Excuses, excuses, excuses! I thought, It’s always going to be this way with you, isn’t it?

I was irritated. I was annoyed. I let my frustration get the best of me. What is the reason? the form wanted to know. Oh, I’ll tell you the reason, I thought. And I did.

What one thing could we have done differently? it pleaded. I laid into it.

How would you rate your overall experience? I skipped the “excellent” box, I skipped the “good” box, and I went right ahead and checked off the “fair” box. Take that!

I handed the man the form, and he looked it over. I didn’t even make a move towards my wallet. I wanted to hear him say the words, to ask me for my identification so he could prove I was who I was, so he could validate all his excuses.

He looked up at me then. “Ok, thanks,” he said. He put the paper down on the desk, indicating that our conversation was through.

“Aren’t you going to ask for my ID?” I said.

“No. I believe you.”

Speechless.

“Are you making trouble?” he asked. I didn’t even know what he was trying to do anymore. My emotions felt twisted and confused. I felt used and manipulated. I started to answer him, “No, I’m not,” I said. “It’s just…”

And I turned my back on him, started and then trailed off, “I just wish…” and let those classic break-up words carry me to my car, and ultimately home.