You know you're moving up in the world when you have your own private gym

Today I visited my fitness centre. I mean... "the" fitness center. The fitness centre serves a population of 2000 girls in high heels, and 150 staff, 20 or 30 of whom are male and not allowed in the fitness centre. So, we've quickly whittled the population of potential fitness centre users down to about 120. Out of those 120, how many do you think are using the fitness centre at 1pm on a weekday afternoon? I'll tell you: exactly 0. Until I come along - then there's one.

It goes like this: I walk into my beautiful, shiny, spic-and-span fitness centre and past the bubbling fountain in the lobby to the security desk, where a security guard is guarding the premises for me. I sign in, and then proceed to my locker room, past the brightly-lit, empty squash courts, and the olympic sized swimming pool and the yoga room filled with brightly-coloured yoga balls. I get dressed in my cutest gym gear, and then head upstairs to my aerobics room to walk uphill on my treadmill and read my book and listen to my music in my CD player for about half-an-hour. Then I take a shower in my shower room, which includes a private dressing room, and then I reorganize my hair in my bathroom mirror, and head back to work after stopping to get a cafe au lait. It -almost- feels like I've arrived.