Good morning, good lookin! I had one of those mornings when I woke up like “nope,” but I dragged myself to the gym anyways. I figured I’d sleepwalk through a workout, but within half an hour I busted out some jump lunges on the TRX! I rose high above my lackluster mood, so I had to share. I feel like 50 shades of slay, if you will.

It’s moments like this that I’m glad I chose to frequent a meathead-majority gym. I almost always get the upstairs TRX/boxing/general stretch area to myself, so I can have the most peaceful workout with this lady while everyone else pumps iron downstairs and talks paleo and protein shakes and whatnot.

I wasn’t always this evolved. In fact, it was just 5 shy years ago when I was like “I need chilled eucalyptus towels and complimentary Bliss spa products to complete a workout.” I’d joined this fancy “wellness club” in Manhattan and instantly scaled up my standards.

I never thought I’d turn into such a posh bitch, but this gym convinced me this was the only way. Every treadmill had fans in the machines, the locker rooms had complimentary shower shoes, and there was a rooftop hang space for members. Like, what?!

Also, that place was crawling with celebs. I saw Cameron Diaz working out with her personal trainer once, got checked out by Gerard Butler once (thank ya) and chatted with David Blaine a few times.

Those were the days. Once I moved to London, I struggled to find a work or home-adjacent gym that offered a similar experience. I paid through the nose for a “platinum label” gym downstairs from work that was, at best, a bronze experience. I hired a personal trainer, using some faulty logic that maybe I should spend even more money to try and meet my stupidly high standards of a posh gym experience. I attended their version of a cycling studios (à la Soul Cycle) craving a eucalyptus towel or, at the very least, a Duchess sighting, but this never happened y’all.

I gave up, but then I moved to Dublin and tried again. I had a posh gym habit, and I’d try anything to get a fix.

Dublin had even fewer options than London, so I toured like 10 different options before settling. I joined the most ridiculous hotel gym that was right above a spa, happily shelling out twice the going rate for a gym with like 3 treadmills, a closet-sized free weights area, and a pool filled with tourists. In fairness, it was in a hotel, and 6 months later I was like, “Cameron wouldn’t go here.”

I quit, bitched and brooded for a couple of months over my lack of options, and joined the meathead friendly gym 5 minutes from home.

Anyways, it’s been a long road to recovery, but I’m happy to report that I’ve kicked my posh gym habit. Would it kill them to carry some chilled eucalyptus towels though? Seriously, is this prison?!