Another Curves Flattens

 My local Curves is closing. The women I meet there or elsewhere in town greet each other with, "Did you get the letter?" We shake heads and shrug.

The letter came from Kathryn, who's had this location for 13 years, absorbing orphans from closing branches for miles around.  It was beautifully written; a real heart tugger.  Seems that Curves Corporate has gone and bought Jennie Craig or maybe vice versa, and now insists that Kathryn sells Jenny Craig food alongside the workout memberships.  That's not something Kathryn, who's always recommending particular fish oils, moisturizers and green cleaning products, wants to do.  Even if she did, she'd have to move: Curves/Jenny Craig cannot be located next door to a Weight Watchers, and that's where this Curves is, sharing the same entryway. Some of us just go out one door and in the other. She's got to be out by the end of the month; lock, stock and stations.

The franchise fees were squeezing her anyway.  Corporate was also giving her flack for the posters she put up, the suction-cup dartboard, the little personalizations she chose.  Moe, her little Pekinese, probably wasn't Curves-approved, either. He ran right through the circuit, or sat on his little throne by the front desk, and nobody complained.

I bet Jillian Michaels, the skinny video bitch with the low-rise spandex capris,  was another corporate directive.  That started this year, with a big Jillian Michaels Curves poster on the wall in the entryway.  For an hour several times a week, instead of the faceless but caring "change stations now" lady who reminded us to switch every half a minute and periodically counted out ten seconds for us to check our pulse, we got Jillian, who told us how she knew we wanted high, sculpted booties, because that's what she wanted.

I hear she got paid nine million to make those monthly videos,  most of them something out of professional cheerleader practice. And no pulse checks, since Jillian didn't actually give a crap if you stroked out and died on the mat. I think she actually made the attending employees nervous; they didn't really want to have to break out the defibrillator.

I didn't even do Jillian's "modified" versions for elderly slackers. My feeling was, If I wanted to do exercise videos I could go home and dust off Jane Fonda; my VHS player still works.  Jillian drew in a few fresh faces, some under-50s, but I tried to avoid her times of the week. I got used to the Zumba sessions -- especially the low-impact one -- but I drew the limit there.

We now have at least six different fitness chains to choose from around here, but none of them are women-only. None have all their machines face into a circle, none have lilac walls, or local crafts or sparkly baseball caps to buy, and none exhibit much of any personality.  Most of all, none of them have the familiar faces and relaxed, among-friends conversation of the women I've been stepping and pumping and bending among for five years -- women whose names I may not remember, but whose stories I do. 

And everyone knows it.  "It's the camaraderie," Sandy says, she of the "3400 " pasted over her head shot on the wall, for 3400 visits. With the faint British accent, Sandy is our most prominent personality, comes up with the bawdiest comments and jokes, gets the most laughs and gives the most hugs.  There's Angela, who's daughter is getting married next month; I know that the catering hall she picked lets you bring your own meatballs.  And Ellie, who's traveled everywhere and volunteers at a help desk in the airport, at international arrivals.  And Sheila, the snow bird, who happens to be a close friend of the mother of a guy I knew all through high school, college and after. Retired and not-yet-retired nurses, teachers, librarians.  And me, the work-at-home, happy for face-to-face interaction at the start of the day.

We Curves customers are not taking this lying down, though.  Annie, one of the long-time employees properly lauded in the farewell letter, has already gotten proposals from several other gyms that would like our collective business.  She's organized a meeting with the local Planet Fitness a week from Monday to see what they'll do for us; many of us have said we'll be there.  But they're a huge ugly warehouse with TVs, no improvement over the corny country music, Beatles medleys and neighborhood news and opinion I've been hearing at Curves for five years. LA Fitness might be nice... with a pool.  I sure would like to see us move en masse.  Maybe they'd line the machines up in a circle?  Then something has to make a noise every thirty seconds. Then we paint the walls a pastel, something less macho...