It's 8:56 AM at the New York Health & Racquet Club at the corner of Broadway and I've-Never-Been- Anywhere-Near-It Street. The girls are in the middle of a step class, which is where you climb up and down a step because you want to be really fit and in shape (Adrianne) or shake off the one calorie from accidentally swallowing a drop of your own sweat (Elyse) or step up so you can be just that one inspired step closing to your Lord (everybody else). "I bust my balls here every week," Adrianne tells us, standing in the back of the class decked out in her camouflage headband -- oh, my god, where is Adrianne's HEAD? Oh, there it is -- and not understanding the actual origin of "balls" from her previous statement. Eh. Who am I to say Adrianne doesn't actually have balls? Tee hee. "Balls." Nevertheless, she's flagging just a bit today, and she's unable to complete successfully the aerobic activities of either the Twirly Twirly Twirly Arms (fly up to heaven, Robin! Flyyyyyyyyyyyy!) or the Giant Lead Pipe Shoulder Lift. Craziest. Clue weapon. Ever. Jo(h)n explains that Adrianne had "issues with stomach poisoning" (like the issue of making it up to explain her way out of what was really the tail end of a bender of her anti-drawl drugs, which clearly were a placebo anyway, considering the results) that inhibited her ability to perform at her best. But, Jo(h)n adds, "Her level of commitment, just being there, was impressive." You should've seen how much she was giving it her all when she was lifting the Giant Gun, the Giant Knife, and the Giant Candlestick. But they didn't show that. Because she had taken the secret passageway to the conservatory.
The girls walk (or, in Ebony's case, box -- check it out, it's the weirdest thing) down the steps of the H&RC and out onto the icy, depressing, New York street and back to the Elyse-otel (geddit? Because she's so...oh, never mind). Once we're back upstairs, the attention turns to Ebony, who is standing in front of a bathroom mirror, rubbing her face and yelling, "I'm supposed to make my skin faaaaaaaaaaabulous!" In a confessional, wee land rovers drive around the surface of Ebony's face as she mindlessly brushes away a tiny American flag jammed into her cheek and speaks loudly enough to drown out the sound of a tiny voice radioing back to Ebony's Face Houston that it's one small step for Ebony's Face but a giant leap for Ebony's Face-kind. Amidst this ruckus, she is still able to tell us with all confidence, "I'll work on it. It will be flawless." She might even go so far as to adopt the lexicon of the city she's in, because it's not passé for her to say her skin will be "like buttah," because she's marinating herself so much that one shot of direct sunlight would cook her straight through and make her tastier than a Thanksgiving turkey. Elyse can't even look at Ebony because she's already full from the Centrum she had for breakfast.