Exercise Bulimia-Bring your Hydro Flask!
“What do you mean I can’t run the stairs anymore?” I asked, confused. The girl with the clipboard shrugged: “I guess the neighbors complained and—” Before she could finish, I set out to find someone superior—someone with a headset or a walkie-talkie, preferably male. They can’t do this to me, I thought to myself. They just can’t. 
It was only the second day of filming on the then yet-to-be-named reality show Stylista, and even though I knew it wasn’t in my best interest to let my high-maintenance flag fly so soon, given the circumstances, I had no choice. Before I’d arrived in New York City, even before I’d signed the confidentiality agreement, I’d inquired twice—once each of Casting and of Production—whether I’d be able to exercise during the shoot, scheduled to last more than four weeks. Both informed me, in writing, that it wouldn’t be a problem. But on day one, not only had gym access “fallen through,” but it was also too late to rent machines for the cast apartment, and, because cameras had to be on us at all times, running outside couldn’t be accommodated. And now, apparently, no stairwell climbing, either. Later that night, I slipped away from the common room where the other 10 contestants were snacking and socializing and locked myself in the upstairs bathroom. There, for the next few hours, I sat on the floor having an emotional breakdown as quietly (so as not to rouse cameraman attention) as I could manage.
By Johanna Cox
