There I was, sitting in the dry sauna at Hot House. You were not naked, but wrapped in a towel, talking to your friend, also wrapped in a towel. Underneath your towels were bathing suits and well-defined muscle tone brought to you by the Bar Method. I was in the buff, as one should be at Hot House, trying to fit some self-care into my otherwise strained (financially, emotionally, physically, etc.) existence. You didn’t even glance in my direction, overlooking my hairy pits and tattoos as you discussed your engagement photographer. You shamelessly blurted out the cost—$10,000 for fucking photographs—as if it was NBD. You and your friend shamelessly listed the “famous clients” you love having. You shamelessly called it “Cap Hill.” You seriously need to consider the terrain of “Cap Hill”: Leave your egotistical dollar figures out of the sacred ground that is Hot House and quit ruining the atmosphere for us blue-collar bitches.