So I did something REALLY LA stupid. I signed up for Equinox for a three day trial. If you live in Kansas, this means nothing to you. It just sounds like I signed up for a new app or a place that sells foreign objects. So if you are living in Kansas and reading this, (why are you reading this?) then I will explain what this outter space sounding planet is.
Equinox is the gym of all gyms in the coveted land of celebrity vanity here in Los Angeles. It is literally the gym athletes flock to in their perfectly coiffed blown out hair extensions wearing nothing but LU LU Lemons ( you know who you are). It is the place all Gods and Goddesses work out, tone and oh ya, relax in. Personally I only did it for the soft towels and the Eucalyptus Steam room. Ya, I said it. And of course for the free parking, I mean who can resist that combo? They offered me a “great deal” at $205 a month to use their soft towels everyday, but I Amazon Primed a $5 bottle of eucalyptus oil instead and said thanks but I’ll only be here for 3 days- no Equinox membership for me. No one was very happy with me except for Arturo the parking attendant who seemed to be the only friendly face I experienced the entire time I was there- Oh well there was “Francis” the personal trainer who wore all black except for his tortoise shell aviators. That friendly convo almost cost me $9,000 in personal training sessions- but I was wise, I dashed to the yoga room before he had a chance to give me the Pilates room tour- F that. I know I am sounding cynical, but to be honest, I am sort of sick of the Semi friendly agenda driven faces I see daily in LA- and I guess I just want someone to invite me to their gym because I’m nice and not “in need of a total body makeover” “Shut up blonde girl who kept staring at me while I hit the treadmill and thought I might need her “Friendly hints” on getting that “perfect physique.” Have you seen my gene pool? It literally has heart disease no matter how well I eat written all over it!
So am I happy I went? Yes- because I learned a huge lesson on the ability to age gracefully while not caving to the depravities of vanity this city clearly holds so dear. AND I REALLY REALLY LIKED those cold minty towels. (no i did not steal one.) (I thought about it though, OHHHH I thought about it.)
I’m at the gym changing in the locker room when in comes two 20-year-olds chatting and encouraging each other on their minuscule diet plan that consisted of caffeinated coffee, green tea, a bunch of vitamins I’ve never heard before, CLA, IRS, BM’s (probably breath mints) and of course a ton of bubbly water (to keep their hunger pangs away). On the outside they appeared to be “the perfect LA female specimens”. Perfect as in untouched from human life experience, lacking any scars, disfiguration or trauma from the escapades of worldliness. They were the perfect combo to off set an ” I’m not good enough nor will never be like them” rant most women in the locker room clearly had running in their unspoken bubbles hanging above their heads like a terrible comic. In this case I was clearly the big orange Garfield standing between the Victoria Secret Angels.
They spent a good twenty minutes comparing their perfect non-abs quipping about how they plan on having “these flat bellies forever-” bc i guess they are “just that freakin DNA blessed” or delusional possessed. In between my eye rolling, eavesdropping, note taking and letting my flab hang out on purpose so they would know what to expect should a baby ever invade their “perfect concave tummies” (cue LMFAO’s-“Girl look at my body, I work out” soundtrack) I spotted another woman blowdrying her hair.
There in all her glory peered a woman a few years ahead of me. She was desperately trying to hold onto her youth with a fresh face of botox – but her warm eyes and familiar nod had me realizing we were on the “same team.” This female specimen had the body of a warrior female who flaunted with grace and dignity her share of battles- her naked left breast had been clearly maimed from what I assumed was cancer and radiation treatment. And I could tell she was listening very intently – hanging onto every word of the other girl team’s convo. When the youngins were finished- after I tucked my own cellulite into my underpants- the woman with the scar turned to me and said “what did those girls say- I tried to listen but I didn’t hear everything – sounded like they really knew something-” Hoping I would be the messenger to reveal the secret of youth- I spouted- “Really?- after their first baby, Mammogram, and uterus exam will any of it really matter?“
The irony of reality hitting our adult selves could be cut with a scalpel. No amount of time, age or plastic can change the one thing we all inevitably become victims to- nope, its called adult-ing (notice I don’t use the term aging- that my friends is a BS term 20 year olds made up to convince us that our human scars of life are odious embarrassments vs the Medallion of Honor and Grace that they ARE.
You know what those two girls said? They said nothing, they said absolutely nothing. They said that they know little of the pains of childbirth, stress and clawing our way to the feminine tower. They said little of how much work it takes to make our female bodies contain life, then rid of it, then react to the changes because of it, then morph, grow and transform in spite of it. They said very little of the tears we shed when we are trying to conceive, the tears we lose after our growing bellies expel all the muscle and leave you with stretch marks. They said very little about the power of our breasts feeding life only to turn on our own lives. They said so little, that I wondered how on God’s Green Earth women knee deep into adulthood with all of the brilliance, understanding, knowledge and redemption they have acquired could possibly even for one moment listen and hope to hold on to even a sentence- yet an entire conversation of such naive words. While Adult-ing is not always fun, it does take bravery, whit and a hell of a sense of humor. I’ll take that over concave non-existent ab talk ANY DAY.
After that the woman with the half boob and I put on our sexy lingerie that reveals and half covers our feminine scars, we high fived each other and headed outta there with only one goal in mind- to eat a cookie while dancing on a rooftop. I bet that other girl team never thinks to do THAT. (Cue Lady Marmalade Soundtrack here)