Indemnity forms – at some point in our lives we have all had to sign these white, crisp pieces of paper that basically give our teacher, camp leader, guide or more recently the gym instructor or even the gym for that matter permission to cut off all our toes, because we fucked them off or broke something, and we have no legal action or course to take against them!
This morning saw me signing an indemnity form at the Gym – lucky lucky lady I tell you! Here I was ready to sign this little piece of paper basically giving these slave driving, bun-busting bastards permission to take away my rights to sue! In the midst of waiting for the fucking indemnity dude to arrive (how hilarious, they have a specific guy to do this – I ponder if he has an indemnity form indemnifying the Gym from any injuries he might sustain from fucked off gymers?!) I started picturing the scenarios I could have used 2 weeks ago (before the clever fucks realized that I hadn’t signed one of these things…) or that could unfold in front of my eyes today:
Scenario 1:
Whilst perving at the hottie in a tight Tee, I would miss place my footing and hit my chin on the treadmill bar thus sending me flying backwards into the bicycles. Blood pouring down my face, me screaming in sheer pain – the Gym response: Sorry for you, we indemnified your ass tart! My claim: the Gym shouldn’t be allowed to have such beefcakes on their premises with single women like me around. I mean really, whatever happened to being considerate – they can train at 7am, when all the fatties come out and play!
Scenario 2:
During my session in hell aka gym training session on the treadmill, I would – from pure exhaustion and over-working it on this damned thing – collapse thus my one leg would go flying in the opposite direction, getting caught on Poser No1’s tread and hence would break, whilst the rest of me got clobbered on the fuckign head a few times by the revolving walk-mac? There would be oodles of blood and screams, naturally… Ahhhh, and then I would awaken (from being totally unconscious of course) to find them smiling – smugly – saying: shame, it’s a pity she signed that indemnity form!
By the time that Indemnity Boy for the Gym got to me, I was a wreck…sweaty palms, my heart
was racing, cotton mouth had set in and I was about to blow my fuse like Mount Crack-a-toe-a! I think I had a full blown panic attack… Eventually I gave in – I sold my soul to the Indemnity Devil, had no choice really (that’s what I tell myself to make me feel better). And all for the fucking crappy-ass use of a gym…!
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