Complaint No. Three – Why Are Gyms So Intimidating?

Like millions of other people, I am unhappy with certain aspects of my body. I would love to lose a few pounds and tone up my wobbly bits, but even the thought of exercise makes me exhausted. There are three stages that I go through every once in a while when I’m experiencing body issues. Firstly, there’s denial – this involves reassuring myself that my stomach is not that flabby as I shovel a family sized packet of crisps down my throat. Then there’s depression – I complain to anyone who will listen that I am the size of a house, whilst they try and spare my feelings and reassure me that it is all in my head (the lying bastards). Finally there’s acceptance – I know that I am too lazy to do anything remotely energetic and so I change into my baggiest pair of pyjamas  and return to my favourite past time…stuffing my face with anything that I can get my chubby mitts on.

Last year, to get me to stop wailing every time I looked in the mirror, my boyfriend suggested that if I joined the gym for a month and made a conscious effort to exercise, he would buy me a pair of jeans that I had had my eye on for some time. I immediately agreed and set off for a sports clothing store. I enthusiastically filled a shopping basket with joggers, sports bras and shorts (the saying all the gear but no idea definitely applies here). Feeling confident in my new attire, I was ready to hit the gym.

As soon as I walked through the doors, I knew I was out of my depth. I was surrounded by machines or as I like to refer to them medieval torture devices, that I had no idea how to work. Consequently I set myself up on a treadmill at a walking pace. If it wasn’t already obvious, I am extremely unfit. I am ashamed to admit that I get out of breath if I run up the stairs too quickly. Within five minutes I was sweating buckets and my entire head had turned a very deep shade of scarlet. Of course, it was at this point a tall, svelte and naturally pretty girl, (the complete antithesis of me) and in the tightest yoga pants I’ve ever seen jumped onto the treadmill beside me.

Leaving the gym, I had more issues than when I had entered. It took all my self-restraint to avoid McDonalds on my walk home, despite the fact I wanted nothing more than to cry into a box of twenty chicken nuggets. It is no surprise that going to the gym only lasted a week. Thus I ended up purchasing my own pair of jeans and every time I squeeze them over my fat arse, I remember why my sister’s favourite pet name for me ‘Shamu’ has stuck. Oh the shame…

Complaint No. Two – The Customer is Hardly Ever Right

It is only fitting that I provide you with some background before I launch into my tirade. I work in a very popular clothing retail store, where I am trained on the customer service desk. This involves offering customers refunds and exchanges on items that they have purchased. However certain items are non-refundable, including underwear, swimwear, hosiery, earrings and cosmetics. This is a company policy due to hygiene reasons.

Recently I was approached by a woman wishing to return several packets of underwear. From the get go, she seemed incredibly irate (this may have been due to the fact she had three screaming young children desperately trying to break free from her tightening grip). I kindly explained to her that I was unable to return her underwear due to hygiene reasons and pointed to a large sign mere inches from her head which explained this. For some reason, she ignored what I had said and proceeded to explain that she had not worn them. Thus I attempted to make light of the situation and joked that I would not like to purchase another persons underwear. Clearly I had misjudged her sense of humour as this went down like a lead balloon. As such, she suggested that I was insinuating that she was a liar. I promptly apologised and reiterated that the reason I was unable to return the underwear was due to company policy.

At this point she decided to change her approach. She proposed that if I returned her underwear, then it could be our little secret. Staring at her in disbelief, I explained that all of the transactions that go through the tills are able to be inspected by management and as such I would be risking my job to return her items. By now her patience, as well as my own, was wearing thin. She demanded to speak to my manager as she did not believe that there was nothing that I could do. Unfortunately, once I had explained the situation to my manager, she confirmed everything that I had already said. If the customer was not already pissed off, she was now.

She began violently shoving her underwear back into her shopping bag and continued to bitch me out. Consequently she stormed away from the customer service desk vowing never to return to the shop. (I do not understand why customers insist on saying this when they do not get their own way – it is a blessing to the retail assistants that we will not have to deal with them again not a hindrance!)

Finally, I apologised to the next customer for the long wait and asked them how I was able to help. To my amazement he emptied his shopping bag onto the desk in front of me and asked whether it would be possible to return the boxer shorts he had recently bought. Fighting the urge to scream, I repeated the exact well rehearsed lines I had spoken minutes before, whilst I prayed to the retail Gods that my shift would hurry up and end!

Complaint No. One – Overcrowding on Trains

As my domain name suggests, I am a serial complainer. I just can’t help but rant about the daily struggles that I face, regardless of how trivial they are.

I should probably provide a little background to the complaint that I am about to present you with… Every Friday at 3:30pm I travel home from university following a 50 minute lecture on Renaissance literature via the train.

I take the train to university four days a week and I can honestly say that I have never seen more than five people at a time sitting in the first class areas that are provided. More often than not, they are standard seat passengers attempting to try their luck and avoid the horde of coffee fuelled zombies struggling to find a seat.

As I stood waiting for my unusually on time train, I quickly noticed that the platform was a lot busier than usual. As the train approached, the commuters began their comical routine of briskly walking along the platform in order to be the first person to reach the door. In order to avoid being pushed and shoved as people fought over empty seats, I decided to stand in the first class vestibule.

Five minutes into my journey I was approached by a female member of staff and was instructed to move down the train into the standard class area. I explained to her as nicely as I could that I would be getting off at the next stop and that the standard class areas were rammed. She looked at me as if I had spat in her face and informed me that there was plenty of room. Reluctantly I picked up my bag and proceeded towards the standard class vestibule, with my new foe in tow.

I squeezed myself in amongst eight other people, trying desperately not to invade their personal space, or worse fall into their laps, as the train sped towards my stop. I began to ponder the need for first class areas. As I mentioned earlier, similarly to my outlook on life, they are often half empty. Surely it would be beneficial to scrap the first class areas so that there are a great deal more seats for the masses packed in like sardines in the vestibules?! I’m sure it would boost the positive feedback that the train companies never seem to receive from their customers.

After apologizing to each individual I had to trample in order to reach the carriage door, I burst through to the freedom of the platform and gave a pitying smile to the large displeased group of people looking to get onto the train as I walked past.