I have recently rekindled my relationship with fitness, largely because my doctor tells me that my already messed up back is becoming more messed up by the extra weight I’ve gained (what with all the sitting on planes I do). So it is with this recent revelation that I find myself in what can only be described as a Silence of the Lambs dungeon knockoff, aka the basement hotel gym in Chelsea.
I’ve been in some questionable gyms; smelly, broken equipment, moldy towels, etc., etc. What sets this one apart is the position of the equipment and the lighting. The treadmill is pushed in the corner, exposing my back to the door, and the overhead lighting is broken making it impossible to see if someone has entered the gym. As we well-traveled women know, we have to have our heads on a swivel at all times when we are alone and always aware of our surroundings. But this is impossible when my headphones in, my footfalls on the treadmill are loud, and there are no mirrors with which to observe newcomers to the “gym.” I power through my run, relying on my spidey sense to alert me if someone comes in behind me. As I finish my run and turn to step down, a movement catches my eye and in one terrifying moment I both flinch and let a little “Whoop!” escape my throat. Another woman had joined me at some point during my run and I was none the wiser. She smiles and instantly apologizes for startling me, and we both laugh.
But when I think about it on my way back up to my room, I realize that she could have been anyone.
Headlines of “Woman Found Smothered with Bosu Ball in Chelsea Gym” circulate in my head. I get officially creeped out and decide the laws of probability prevent me from dodging that particular bullet again. Maybe hotel room yoga is the way to go. #itputsthelotioninthebasket
Journey On, Janes.