Class Action

It’s a madly competitive world out there and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Parents team up with real estate agents to hatch plots about their children’s schools. The office manager schemes to get a pay rise while John in sales is getting ulcers trying to beat his previous month’s target. Best friends secretly race each other to the altar. Kids try to psych each other out just before an exam. “Oh, God, I’m going to fail!” Even though everyone knows Alex is going to get an A and then go to Harvard.

Meanwhile in the little smelly gym that Saffy goes to, it’s like the Borgias have just mated with the offspring of Predator and Alien.

In an effort to get more members in, the gym has started a classathon. The person who goes to the most number of classes gets two months free membership.

“What are the other prizes?” Amanda asked recently when Saffy came home, her face red as a tomato, and collapsed onto the sofa.

“I’m in so much pain!” Saffy moaned. “I’ve just done back to back spinning and body pump.”

Amanda sighed. “What are the other prizes?” Really, the woman has the patience level of a pencil.

“Uh, second prize is one month’s free membership, and third prize is a heart monitor watch thing.” Saffy sat up suddenly and looked at Amanda with deep suspicion. “Why? You’re not thinking of joining the classathon are you? You not even a member of my gym, and you need to be a member to join, otherwise it’s not fair if you think you can…”

“Oh relax. I haven’t stepped foot in a gym since Justin Bieber’s voice broke. I’m just surprised that you’re putting in so much effort for so little return.”

“I want to win second prize this year,” Saffy said, collapsing back onto the sofa. “Last year, I won that stupid watch which I ended up giving to a homeless uncle on Scotts Road. This year, I’m aiming higher.”

“You’re killing yourself,” I mumbled through a mouthful of Old Chang Kee curry puff. “It’s not worth it.”

“Especially for that gym!” Amanda added.

Saffy came up again on her elbows. “What’s wrong with my gym?” she demanded.

“It smells!”

Saffy collapsed back onto the sofa, defeated. “Oh, I know. It’s a miserable hell-hole! The towels are frayed. The equipment is so rusty, I’m surprised I don’t have tetanus. The people who go there are old and fat. But it’s all I can afford! And I’m determined to win second prize!”

“Why not first?” I asked.

“There’s this girl in the classes. She’s tall, thin and blonde. I think she’s Russian. She’s there all the time. We think she’s going to win. We hate her.”

The classathon lasts for a month and Saffy has been killing herself. Every evening, after work, she’ll head straight to the gym. Monday nights is core strength, Tuesday spinning, Wednesday yoga, Thursday body pump, Friday core strength, Saturday spinning and Sunday zumba. Sometimes, in an effort to increase the number of stamps on her classathon card, she’ll do double classes.

“You’re turning into a gym rabbit!” Sharyn told her.

“Bunny! Gym bunny!”

“Where got bunny, one?”

“Oh just shut up, Sharyn!”

Her temper is also increasingly frayed.

This morning, Saffy came home from body pump, every step from the front door to the sofa a painful mince.

“I came third again!” she announced. “I got beaten by a fifty-year old man who just had bypass surgery! Can you believe that?”

“Who got first?”
            “Wonder Bloody Woman, that’s who! Get this – in one month, she did 69 classes! Sixty-nine! That’s like two classes a day! Who has time to do two classes every day? Just doing one every day has just about killed me! God, I’m so depressed!”

I sent Amanda a text message and told her to stop by Cold Storage for Ben & Jerry. “Two tubs!” I instructed.

“I did 41 classes. Forty-one! That’s 41 hours of my life that I’m never getting back. And that’s not counting the time I spend getting there and coming home! For what? Some stupid heart monitor! I wanted the money!”

“Look on the bright side,” I said. “You’re in the best shape of your life. I mean, look at your tummy! I can actually see a faint outline of your abs!”

Later that night, as we sat on the sofa watching ‘True Blood’, and passing the tub of ice-cream between us, Saffy murmured, over the slurps of Eric Northman drinking someone’s blood, “Next year, I’m coming for you. Just you wait. You won’t know what hit you.”