I had planned to go to the gym on my lunch hour today (working freelance in midtown this summer) but my plans were thwarted by an officious functionary at the NY Sports Club at 48th and 6th. Though I’ve been breezing in there at various times since I started this job, no one had ever stopped me before — even though it seems I have a “gold membership” that, oxymoronically, is worth less than the standard membership. It turns out that I’m not supposed to just walk into any gym I want (and NYSC has hundreds) any time I feel like, I’m only supposed to be there at “off peak hours,” which begin at 2 pm.

I’ve been a member of this gym since Jesus played varsity and I tend to forget the terms, I guess. I don’t think I’ve ever been to this particular location before 2, lunch hour being generally agreed upon as an hour falling between 12-2, so I was surprised to be stopped by a young woman with a stud in her nose at 1:40. I think she must have been a new manager or someone who just completed some kind of training because she seemed very invested in thwarting my best efforts to sweet talk my way past her.

“You’ll have to come back in twenty minutes,” she said as the towel boys behind her rolled their eyes. They knew the place was emptying out.

“But I only have an hour for lunch,” I reasoned. “That won’t give me time to work out, shower…” But she wasn’t having any of it.

A colleague of mine breezed past. “What’s the problem?” she asked.

“This woman has an attitude,” I said matter-of-factly, knowing the case was already lost.

“I don’t have an attitude,” the 90-day wonder insisted. “I”m just explaining the terms of your membership.”

I left with my gym bag, muttering oaths as I went. I hit the bricks without a destination. Tourists from Times Square were spilling over into the Diamond District (“Look, mommy, Jews!”) and I had planned the day all wrong. I had even had a couple Krispy Kreme donuts with my coffee this morning feeling guiltless — yeah, so what? I’m going to the gym. Now I was as aimless as a Gus Van Sant movie.

I wandered around the corner and walked between the buildings toward 49th Street. There’s an artificial waterfall there with a tunnel running through it. Today tourists were queued up to take pictures there. I ended up at a Japanese dive called Sapporo, ordering the katsu-don and feeling rather unimaginative. There was some sweet soul music in the air, above the hissing and clanking sounds the chefs were making behind the counter, and it took a minute before I ID’d the singer. It was a best-of-Etta-James collection and I was amazed to find the Japanese cooks singing along to “Something’s Gotta Hold On Me”. It occurred to me, reading my Janet Malcolm book and chewing on my cutlet, that if that sourpuss hadn’t blocked my attempt to work out I wouldn’t have taken that walk through the waterfall and made it there to hear their chorus (“Oh, it must be ruv!”). I figured I owed her one.