I am a gym rat with a capital “R”, so when I told my uncle I was going to Crunch while in NY he insisted (more like demanded) I join him at the 92nd Street Y. “You’ve never seen a gym like this”, he touted as we walked over (Sheez, I’ve been in LA for so long I’ve forgotten about walking. In the street. Without being arrested for soliciting.) And, no, I certainly hadn’t. My uncle, a retired, handball playing man about town, LOVES this place. He gave me the grand tour, even though I was thinking, “ok, just show me the free weights please!” I saw the auditorium, a few musicians rehearsing, the b-ball court, the locker rooms, the snack bar, the elevators, the lecture series board, oh, and the stairs. Finally we made it to the check in desk. My uncle forgot his guest passes. “No prob”, the nice man at the desk said after learning that I was from LA (where he was from) and we have a couple friends in common. I dumped my things (Whaddya need all that crap for? as my uncle put it) in the lovely locker room that could easily put SportsClub LA to shame. People were friendly. No one tried to kick me off the treadmill after a half hour. They didn’t try to run you over in locker room. Some even struck up a conversation over joint primping in the mirror, and it wasn’t just a clever ruse to get more mirror space. I liked it. I will be back.
