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So I'm at the gym the other day.

Actually, I'm at the gym just about every day. Sad to say, I've become something like a gym rat.

I walk in there like I own the place. I am making a rather hefty payment every month, although I doubt any of it goes toward principal. You'd think I'd have earned a monogrammed towel or even a T-shirt, or that the employees would at least know my name. But, no, they still make me scan my little bar-coded key card every time I visit.

So here I am at the gym looking for my key card with several people stacking up in line behind me. I start to panic just a little. I see my bent-up Fresh Values card, which helps me save on groceries and give back to the school of my choice all at the same time.

It doesn't help me get the produce manager to carry the kumquats I like, and it doesn't convince the manager to restock the pizza spice I use. But it does help me save a dollar here and there.

I move on to my Albertsons and Raley's cards and wonder why places like Wild Oats, Trader Joe's and Whole Foods don't give out customer cards. Don't they want me to save money while I'm shopping in their stores? Isn't it important that they, too, help our schools while I buy my groceries?

I start to ask the opinion of the nice young man behind the gym's service counter, but then I see the people behind me shifting on their toes, sighing and starting to rattle their own keys.

I keep looking.

Borders, Hastings and even PetSmart, have a place on my key ring. No wonder my keys are so heavy. I have more cards on the ring than I do keys. But I can't find my gym card.

A little part of me hopes they won't let me in, forcing me to return home without breaking a sweat. The nice young man summons another clerk away from the important task of folding warm towels. He begins waving the impatient patrons around me and scanning their cards so they can enter. A few give me dirty looks as they pass by.

Losing my entry card seems to be as big a crime as paying by check in the cash-only line at the grocery store or having 20 items in the express lane. I'm beginning to think the gym needs to add a big sign outside: Have your card out and ready to swipe! Be prepared! You know, as they do at the fast-food drive-up window. You place your order and drive about 5 feet before being accosted by a huge sign ordering you to be prepared to pay.

I've always wanted to ask the kid at the window what they do to customers who don't have their money out. Do they purposely spill soda all over the outside of the drink carrier? Maybe they eat part of the french fries waiting for the money to finally appear.

But I never ask the kid at the window; I'm afraid he might tell me.

At least the gym can't do anything to my salad. What's the worst they can do? Send me home? Like that would be harsh. I'd celebrate.

The new clerk starts typing on the keyboard. This is the same kid I see almost every day when I come in. He smiles and greets me - even asks some days how I'm doing. He knows me. But now I've broken a rule, and the smile is nowhere in sight.

"Name?" he asks, not looking up from the computer.

I tell him and then have to spell it for him. He finds me in the system, nods to his colleague and says, "She's fine. Let her in."

I slink through the gate and head for the treadmills. I step up on my machine, set down my bottle of water and then reach for my headphones as I try to decide among watching what looks like a profile of basketball players, an interview with Larry King, an infomercial about some bendy piece of exercise equipment or a poker game.

I dig a little deeper and realize I've left my headphones in the car. If I leave now, I'll never get back in. I sigh and turn up the speed on the treadmill. Today will be the perfect time to begin learning the fine art of lip reading.