I recently remarked to my friend John that it would be nice if the gym card girls remembered us once in a while. We’re at the gym 3-4 times a week at nearly the same time of day, but without fail they always ask us for our photo I.D. as well as our membership cards. And then, because they’ve been dutifully trained in customer service, they call us by our names...but only after peering at the computer screen and slowly picking out our information. So 3-4 times a week, we both hear:
“Thank you, Mr................................................................”
(Somewhere in the world, a broadway musical is written, rehearsed, and performed. Glaciers move. Continents drift.)
“......................................Howard! Mr. Bobincheck! And enjoy your workout.”
This is a laudable customer service ethic. But you know what would be more impressive? Remembering us.
This didn’t used to bother me. It’s not like either of us take the time to make small talk and establish a connection with the staff. So it’s understandable that they don’t remember our names.
But the other day I forgot my shorts at home and didn’t feel like bagging the workout, so I bought a pair at the gym store. I spent several minutes with the staff girl, picking through possibilities. I was forced to settle on a long, black, baggy pair with a “reversible” bright blue side. I said, “This will be fine, because after this I’m auditioning for M.C. Hammer’s comeback video.”
And she laughed--not in a I’m laughing all the way to the bank with the commission from these shorts kind of way, but rather: Goodness! I’m barely old enough to understand that dated pop culture reference, yet I appreciate its hilarity. Well met, good sir, well met!
But a few days later, we walked through the door and the same girl was behind the counter. I smiled at her, and in return I got: “May I also see your photo I.D.? Thank you Mr..............................................................................Howard, and enjoy your workout!”
Maybe I’m just too nondescript. I’m seriously thinking about dressing up as a traffic cone for the rest of my life.
