Chapter 11
EMILY
Angie pushes me through a series of elevators that take us out of The Circle Hotel to the adjoining shopping emporium
Finally, we reach the Equinox Fitness club.
I’m impressed by Angie’s confidence as she breezes by the club’s reception desk and then into the club.
“The place looks more like a glossy advertisement for Dante’s Inferno than a fitness center,” I remark.
“That’s the idea,” says Angie.
A sea of beautiful women in beige Lululemon and white tops float by. I expected to see that type at a fancy club like this.
It’s the men who surprise me. Their perfect abs and detailed pecs resemble models from a magazine.
“I can’t believe this glamorous workout place is in the basement of The Circle Hotel.”
“Basement?! You’re in Manhattan now. We call it the ‘subterranean level.’”
“Have you been an Equinox club member long?”
“A member?” she laughs. “I can’t afford anything like this. I’m a guest of Gina and Dante.”
Angie drags me through the club floor to the locker room. We pass rows of mahogany lockers and a vanity wall lined with brand-name products.
Then she steers us to a corner bench near the far end.
A group of giggling girls take the space across from us, shedding clothes with the easy indifference of women who have never once thought twice about their perfect bodies.
“Now change into the exercise gear so we can get on with our workout adventure,” she says.
“Change?! Not in public.”
“Fine. There’s a private dressing room across the way.”
I take the garments and slip into a changing room.
When I come out, Angie’s eyes widen. “Oh my God, you’re a knockout in those snug leggings. No one would have expected it after that boxy suit you wore to your wedding.”
The suit, I think, served its purpose.
But these leggings are ridiculously snug.
So tight I have that ‘camel toe’ shape where the lycra fabric outlines the shape of my sex.
And when I turn to check out my backside, it’s even worse.
The bright pink color and butt-lifting design of the leggings make me look like a female chimpanzee in estrus.
“Angie, I can’t go out there in this.” I tug at the waistband, which springs back against my hip with a small, humiliating snap. “ Everyone is going to stare at my butt.”
“That’s the whole point of going to the gym.”
She moves me toward the door by my shoulders so fast my high ponytail swings.
“Look around. Half these women are wearing a similar design. Or one even more daring.”
“Of course. They’re models and actresses.”
“Nope. Just regular girls - secretaries, nurses, financial analysts who put a premium on their bodies.”
Angie leads me to the main exercise floor. I feel like I’m nude in this hot pink outfit, but no one gives me a sidelong glance.
“What exercise should we do first?” I ask.
“Well, if you’ve never exercised before, we should stretch to loosen you up.”
I follow Angie to a large open area in the back lined with padded mats.
Three girls spread out nearby for their own stretch routine—long-limbed, effortless, the kind of girls who fold in half like they were built that way.
One of them glances up at me mid-lunge, then leans toward her friend. They murmur together a bit. As they do, her friend’s eyes slide over to me as if I’m the subject of their conversation.
“What’s that about?” I ask Angie in a low voice.
“I’m not sure. But it’s definitely something,” she says, grabbing her phone. “I’m going to look at the Manhattan Social gossip column to find out what’s going on.”