But first, we learn, we're on our way to work out with Martin, the gym guy. Xiomara does an impression of him that goes "yo yo, y'know, what's up, come to my gym" that makes me turn to the person next to me and ask "What is that, a Grace Jones impersonation? Because they could just about pass as twins! Anyone who doesn't think so is crazy! Or her!" Sadly, I discovered only at that moment that I was, in fact, alone in my living room. Someone please come over. The girls crowd into the elevator, calling out that it's 8:30. Someone yells, "Camille, let's go!" But Camille is still inside the loft, elaborately braiding her hair and singing to herself that she should "see that pretty girl in the mirror, there," getting cut off by those bitches before the "response" part of her brain had time to check in with "What mirror, where?" She walks to the elevator, but alas the doors have already closed. In a confessional, she sneers, "Y'know, I've always, like, held the elevator for everyone." Not even in a world where she can fly into the past and stop lupus can Camille Butterfly Effect her way into pretending she's ever done anything nice for anyone who isn't Camille. Luckily, world-weary Camille is coming of age in the big, bad, vertically-built city, and she's come to realize, "If they want to cuddle up and be friends and get in the elevator, go ahead and do that." Which they certainly did. She concludes: "This is a competition. This is not a sorority. You're not here to be friends with anyone. The point is: win." That's always what the girl who everyone hates says until she's booted in a bloodless coup three weeks from the end. And I love the Fellini-esque dream logic that it was her decision to let them make her miss the elevator.
Martin "Welcome...To The Rocky" Snow welcomes the girls back into the gym, diving right in and gesturing madly with his leather-gloved hands in such a stereotypically Italian way that the only thing that may divert his attention is if he jumps high enough to catch a magic mushroom and suddenly finds himself running really fast underwater.
We learn that today there will be a competition that, according to Martin, "is not the Waitress Of The Year competition! It's the top model competition!" And I know I'll probably get the culottes sued off me for failing to capitalize the words "top" and "model," which are now fully owned and operated entities of TyraCo LLC, but to structure the language Schlocky Balboa is uttering would imply that it made so much as one lick of sense in this world or any other. A Waitress Of The Year competition? Do they have those? Do they require aptitude at boxing? Can we skip dessert and just take a check, please? Thanks.