I was at Pure Austin last night, trying to blow off some steam and work through my primary grief, despite the fact that I had hurt my right knee earlier in the day by slipping and falling at Whole Foods while trying to balance an assortment of two-bite cupcakes (not a pretty sight, as you can imagine).

The new sign in the women’s locker room is promoting a “bikini work-out” clinic, a cruel reminder to single female gym members (you know, the ones who work out in full make-up) that this may be the last summer for them to land a man before the dreaded ass-sag.

I ripped the blatantly sexist, not to mention poorly designed (come on, clip art of a firm butt?), sign off the door and marched/hobbled on my one good leg, to the front desk, where I slammed it down, interrupting the girls passing out the freakishly small hand towels that are supposed to pass for bath towels but instead just make you feel like you’re a hideous creature from Planet Fat.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I demanded.

One of the girls smiled. “Would you like to sign up?” She looked at me, frowning. “Unfortunately, ma’am, we can’t guarantee that your breasts will get any bigger.”

“NO, I’m not interested in this demoralizing clinic,” I responded, shaking my fist. “Telling us to get in ‘bikini-shape’ is an affront to women everywhere! I don’t see any ’speedo work-out’ clinics being offered for all the fat hairy men in here — like those guys,” I said, pointing over to the steriod-powered weight-lifting area.

The girl furrowed her brow. “You’re that same pushing-middle-age woman who complained about the strip tease class a few weeks ago, aren’t you? And, before that, the bride boot camp? And didn’t you tattle on some woman who was sitting in the sauna fully clothed, accusing us of contributing to the alleged drunkorexia epidemic sweeping this city?”

I grabbed the sign and tore it into pieces, realizing that I was the only woman still fighting for justice. I will be wearing a tankini this summer to do my part.