Too late to escape Biggest Loser Resort

It was all I could do to get out of bed to make my longest commute ever to a gym: From PA to LA.

When I left Philly airport for The Biggest Loser Resort in Malibu, it was sunny and 70. Sorry I brought my winter jacket (suitable for scaling Mt. Everest in a blizzard) with me.

Even though I was slogging along (so out of shape, could barely carry my computer and drag my Vera Bradley carry-on to the gate), took time to appreciate the homage to movies made in Philly.

Just some of the posters lining the walls of the people mover. I was surprised at how many there actually were.

On the plane, struck up a conversation with a USC administrator roughly around my age. I hadn’t eaten dinner. She offered part of her cheesesteak.

But I’m going to The Biggest Loser, I feebly protested. So what, was her response.

So what, indeed.

Weather in Los Angeles:  50 and raining. After living there for a decade, that wasn’t a surprise. What was shocking was that this wasn’t February; it was almost spring; and it was so much warmer back home. Zipped the jacket up to my chin.

Mitch’s cousin graciously offered to put me up for the night. My stint at BLR (acronym for Biggest Loser Resort) wasn’t starting until the next day. She offered to drive me there. No car this time; couldn’t afford it. The price tag for a week at the resort wiped me out.

She lives in the San Fernando Valley — The Valley — as it’s called, about 40 minutes away from Malibu.

Hey where’s the limo? Where’s the movie stars? Where’s the picture-postcard weather?

This was the view from the bus that goes from LAX to The Valley. Cheap (7 bucks) and convenient — what an LA rush to have dibs on the carpool lane and leave everyone behind in the dust!

I felt bad for the harried driver. We spent a good 20 minutes avoiding the bumper-car terminal traffic. Even before we were out of the airport, he was talking to no one in particular about all the near-accidents he’s had.

The woman next to me with the broken tooth and broken English crossed herself the moment we merged onto the freeway. Ow-kay.

Next morning the storm was gone. No time for really fresh orange juice from the tree in cuz’s front yard. Had to hit the (Ventura) Highway for Malibu.

Checking in at the resort. Too late to turn back; my ride had already gone.

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