Jeph B.
Yelp
Have you ever heard the story of the Ugly Duckling? He's supposed to grow up and become a beautiful swan.
I'm still hoping this will happen for me.
Until then, my morning routine is thus:
1) Waddle furiously through the doors and into air perfumed by a medley of fruit, well-blended, courtesy of the Juice Generation at the street level of this particular facility.
2) Glance in passing at the Shop's limited wares (all the same, as I likely can't fit into any of it).
3) Find my way up two flights of stairs where I am greeted, without fail, by some of the most pleasant people on the planet -- especially given it's half-past-five, and they're talking to an enormous duck.
4) Speed up yet another two flights of stairs to reach the men's locker room, where I avoid, equally deftly, both eye contact and myself in mirrors.
5) Change, but somehow, never enough.
6) Have a mild existential crisis.
6) Lock my things away (with my own lock -- other gyms have built-in locks).
7) Back down to the main space for the usual rounds of stylish, new-age self-flagellation.
It is here that I am frequently left in awe. One, because of the variety of clean -- and I mean, clean -- equipment. And two, because the patrons, oh, the patrons.
These dazzling ducklings (I'm too far into this metaphor to back out now) splashing around in their athluxury gear, their chiseled physiques a testament to their commitment, their perfect skin a testament to their genetics and/or wallets.
To the immediate right of the weight room, you'll find a battalion of treadmills, stationary bikes, ellipticals, row machines, and stairmasters.
To the left of the cardio cache, a group class studio, where the trainers are paid to kill you.
If you're not into that, look to your right -- you'll almost have missed it -- but therein lies the cycling studio, where you can play the Pursuit, a cycling game where the objective is to kill yourself and spare the trainers the trouble.
Upstairs is the yoga studio, its massive windows permitting light in, but never allowing you to leap out.
Once you've completed your own particular brand of punishment, you're free to grab a eucalyptus-scented towel from the fridge by the stretching area and try to asphyxiate yourself with it, as I do, while wondering why everything can't be eucalyptus-scented.
We've reached step 8, now: I complete my workout and head for the lockers -- every bit as magical as everyone says. Kiehl's shampoo, conditioner, body wash, lotion, and facial moisturizer; razors and shaving cream; and a huge amount of space so you're not constantly fondling your neighbor, unless it's purely intentional.
Out on the cobblestones of Crosby Street, I reflect on what I've just put myself through, and why.
And then wonder when I can do it again.
That's the beauty of Equinox -- particularly this location, even if it isn't the most up-to-date. The abject dedication everyone has is intoxicating. From the staff who do everything to cater to your every need, to the facility itself, to the ultimate motivation of all, the patrons -- Equinox SoHo inspires you to push yourself...and then facilitates your drive.
It won't change you overnight. No gym will. But it just might encourage you to try.
