7 a.m.: Wake-up
7:15 a.m.: Start your day with some cardio by dancing around your room to “Happy” by Pharrell. Accept that this is the happiest you will feel all day.
7:30 a.m.: Check voicemail from POTUS. Listen to impassioned voicemail, cry for 10 minutes, and then do 30 crunches while listening to Sheryl Sandberg’s Lean In on audiobook.
7:40 a.m.: Take a 10 minute shower. During deep conditioning, do 10 squats. Try to think of a way to invent a waterproof phone so you can answer texts from Abby about her relationship problems with David even whilst showering. Putting your phone in a plastic bag doesn’t work as well as one would think.
8:40 a.m.: Now that you’ve finished your hour-long process of carefully selecting the perfect outfit, accessories, and lipstick shade, it’s time for work. Purposely leave yourself 5 fewer minutes than you need to get to your Metro stop, so you hustle a little bit. And make sure that this is the first and only time you’ve worn this outfit in this exact combination. You’re Olivia Pope, after all. Appearances matter.
9:30 a.m.: Arrive at work.
10 a.m. – 12 p.m.: Meet with clients, dig up the dirt on any enemies they might have—the usual. If your client requires that you hide a missing body for them, make an excuse to lift the body yourself before it’s disposed. This is a great bicep workout—but don’t forget to use your core!
12 p.m. – 1 p.m.: While the Gladiators hold down the fort, head over to the usual, completely unmarked bench for a meeting with your dad. Climb the steps of the Lincoln Memorial before and after your meeting, giving you the chance to think about the true meaning of liberty and justice, and why it’s important to have great calves.
1 p.m. – 3:30 p.m.: Spend this time locked in your office, focusing on work and how much weight you’d gain if you ever actually moved to Vermont and made jam all the time. Avoid all texts from Fitz reading “Cum over, I need you.” and generally just speaking to Harrison. Whenever you feel the urge to pick up the phone, do 20 tricep dips.
3:30 – 4:30 p.m.: Eventually cave and make the first of your potentially multiple daily visits to the White House. Have a clandestine meet and greet with Fitz that lasts all of two minutes before you get passive aggressively chased out by Mellie. When Mellie throws one of Fitz’s paperweights at you, do half a burpee disguised as ducking.
5 p.m.: Go see Captain Jake Ballard. Use your elevated heart rate from feeling simultaneously afraid for your life and turned on to your advantage by doing knee lifts (as carefully as possible, given your pencil skirt) as soon as you leave, in the hallway outside his office.
8 p.m.: Catch Quinn making out with Charlie; use being sick to your stomach as an excuse to skip dinner.
8: 30 p.m. – 9:30 p.m.: Do some recon on your mom’s latest betrayal as an enemy of the state. While you’re tailing her with Huck, silently thank her for the only gift she’s ever given you: A faster than normal metabolism.
11 p.m.: Provided that no one is in life-threatening danger or you’re not attending some White House Correspondents Dinner that requires you to wear a tragically fabulous outfit, try to get at least 8 hours of sleep. If you see Fitz that night, depending how much he’s had to drink, estimate 25-30 minutes worth of calories burnt by sexual intercourse. If he’s too busy perfecting the single curl in his hair to pay a visit to your penthouse, do 15 jumping jacks before bed, and go easy on the popcorn.
Let’s face it. The last time you tried to go for a run, you barely made it past your door before your dad accosted you and tried to have you deported to another country. If you can’t be normal enough to eat Gettysburger with your fake boyfriend, you certainly can’t make nightly trips to the gym either. If you magically find a brief respite from serving at the pleasure of the President—literally—do 10 laps in the pool. However, understand that should you actually find a moment of peace, it might mean you’re the last person on earth.
No matter what: Never let them see you sweat. Literally.
Lana Schwartz is a writer living in New York City. Follow her on Twitter at @_lanabelle, but only if you dare.