Ah, hot tub. How I love you.

My friend, the beautiful and talented Jenna Phillips, leads an indoor Mission: Possible at the Sports Club LA.

Since I'm not a member of one of the most expensive gyms in the city, I have to beg Jenna to put me on the club's guest list for the class.

When she can, it's great. Jenna's Mission: Possible workouts are fun and extremely challenging, and afterwards I get to sit in the club's hot tub. 

While my gym is nice, they don't have a hot tub and the bathtub in my apartment is too small to get more than a third of me in there, so getting to soak my entire self in overheated water while getting a back massage is a rare treat.

I know it's bad for me, but it feels so good.

So after an ass-kicking Mission (push up tabatas. Ouch), I swam a few laps in the club's beautiful pool to get the lactic acid out of my limbs, lolled on the sun deck with the rich people, then retired to the locker room where I soaked in the glorious hot tub. 


When I started to feel like an overcooked noodle, I got out, hit the shower , then strolled over to the clubs in-house restaurant and had a happy hour pepperoni pizza (personal sized, not a giant one) and a beer. I then biked about a mile home while chanting "shut up, legs"

This morning, I'm only moderately sore, but I am feeling a little bloated from the salt.

It was worth it.