I walked into Century City Club Equinox, almost inserting myself into the spotless transparent glass door. Three young women at the counter, beaming youth in front of black walls that seem to suck me in. 

“I’m here for the tour.”   A suited man in a large, rather luxurious office greets me with so much reserve and robotic gestures that I feel like running out.   I was led through a scintillating voluminous space, enveloped in floor-to-ceiling glass, streamed with sunlight and views of Westwood.   The members,  women attired in matching voluptuous outfits and personal trainers, lean as lions tossing funny equipment to the client, fastidious housekeepers, sterilizing and vacuuming in trendy uniforms. It was as if  I were watching a film production. 

The treadmill cycle area was a bit crowded, and not one person didn’t have a headset on, staring at the screen of choice.  The bathrooms were hotel accessorized, and even pumps were filled with Kiehl products. There was a steam room, make-up area, showers, all the necessities, and a few women were blowing their hair, all beautiful. 

More rooms, a snack bar, shopping, pulsating music, and a closer look at the guests.

“ This is as upscale as you can get; you’ll love it, and you’ll meet important people, I’m sure.”

I listened to his closing argument and watched the bodies bend like pretzels as personal trainers raised and stretched their heads, arms, and legs.  Bodies bounced, climbed ropes, did flips, and hung upside down, like a circus act. After the close, a condescending smirk, that I read as, join, or go hang out with the losers at 24-hour fitness. 

 He handed me the contract, and I read it over.  The cost was more than I’ve ever spent. The way I looked at it was a place to work out and meet new people, although my instinct was that these were not my people.  I signed and walked out feeling dizzy again.  I stopped in a shoe store to look at what women were wearing.   The salesgirl kept complimenting me, and showing me shoes that she loved, and before I knew it, she sold me what I didn’t come in to buy, high-top lace-up pink workout sneakers.  Leaving the Century City Satellite, beyond the construction and traffic, I raced home to recuperate. What’s happened to me after living in a village in New Mexico, is that too much stimulation is now exasperating.

I walked to Equinox for my first workout, hopped on the treadmill with weights, and tried to look perfectly comfortable, but I wasn’t.  The vibe and everything about this ballroom of a gym seemed rehearsed. Maybe I’m too observant, trying too hard to fit in. I noticed so much in that hour. The workout is also a sort of performance, just a shade of competition between men and their weights, women straddling rubber balls, yoga mats, bench presses, and only a handful look like they need it. Men and women occupy the treadmill room; without expressions, they seem to live inside themselves.
There is no conversation; it feels more like a convent. There is no hi, hey, or smile. I asked a trainer, “It’s not very social here. Why is that?”
“ These are the highest paid executives, lawyers, agents, actors, and they don’t come in to socialize–they are only here to do the work-out.”
Great move, Greta. I’m paying three hundred a month to be invisible.