The pecs behind the desk said, "Sign this copy, please." Razzlemadazzled and wearing a stupid grin, I did as I was asked. Abigail looked at her pitiable mother, put the little gym fob sign-in thingy on my keyring, led me by the hand to the recumbent bike, and sat me down.
I listened to the preloaded (i.e., Abigail's) music on my new hand-me-down iPod. I sweated. It was good.
Walking to the car, I asked Abigail, "What just happened in there?"
"You bought a three-month membership."
Ah. The power of the pec.