I Worked Out With Dustin Hoffman’s $275/Hour Personal Trainer

If you’ve ever stood next to a celebrity in real life, it can feel… unfair. Famous people look better than gen pop — glowier, tighter, miraculously poreless — because they have access to the best that Los Angeles has to offer: top-tier nutritionists, salmon sperm facials, $900 bio-hacking IVs, ab-sculpting robots, cryo chambers in their guest bathrooms, and many more mysterious treatments we civilians aren’t even cleared to Google.

But what happens when someone like me — a regular person with regular-person net worth — gets access to a celebrity trainer for just one session? Would it change me forever? Would it finally unlock my dream body?

I made an appointment with U.P. Fitness to find out. U.P. is a boutique personal training company so exclusive it seems to not want to be found — at least not by the masses. With a handful of locations hiding within L.A.’s ritziest corners, the operation is known for sculpting the bodies of Glen Powell, Olivia Colman, Lily Collins, and some others I can’t name here. Also, rounding out the list for reasons I can’t explain, chameleonic king of stage and screen Dustin Hoffman. A single session goes for $275 and change. Pricey, sure — but if it’s good enough for D. Hoff, it’s good enough for me.

The U.P. Fitness location I visited in Century City is tucked inside the sleek lobby of a high-end office building, just steps from the high-flying Creative Artists Agency — the kind of quiet luxury setup that softly screams celebrity-adjacent. The first thing I noticed when I walked in: Wow, this place was clean.

Every piece of equipment sparkled, as if purchased that morning. There was zero clutter — not a sweaty towel in sight — and not a single guy grunting through deadlifts in toe shoes. The lighting was expertly designed: soft and flattering but purposeful, like a Nancy Meyers kitchen, with a wall of giant windows that filled the gym with selfie-enhancing natural light. The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and strongly of nonchalant ambition. The music was low, chill, and clearly not meant to motivate — this place is for people who don’t need motivation. In a word, it felt expensive, because it was. A far cry from the chaotic energy of my usual deeply middle-class gym, this was a place where no one sweated, only perspired.

Once I exhaled, I was greeted by Emily Schofield, one of U.P.’s most experienced trainers: an intimidatingly gorgeous, no-nonsense Australian baddie who’d be played by Rose Byrne in the inspiring biopic about my life. I wanted the full celebrity U.P. experience, I told her. I wanted to throw battle ropes like I was three months out from shooting a Marvel movie. I wanted burpees until I had abs like Dustin Hoffman circa Marathon Man. I was crystal clear: Don’t go easy on me just because I’m not famous.

First things first: body fat measurements. As fear took over and my soul started to leave my body, Schofield cheerfully ushered me into a private room and whipped out a devilish little device called a caliper. It looked like something from a medieval dentist’s kit — part forceps, part torture instrument — designed to grab and measure folds of flesh with unsettling precision. This was not the affirming, A-list experience I’d mentally storyboarded. As she pinched a fold of my thigh with the evil tool, I balked. Surely Dustin didn’t have to endure this? Schofield didn’t flinch.

“All clients at U.P. — celebrity or not — get the same treatment,” she told me. I tried to protest weakly: Was she accounting for the robust thickness of my Lululemon leggings? Maybe thicker-than-average skin ran in my family? She didn’t even look up. “Everyone has the same thickness of skin,” she said. “The device is only measuring fat.” I nodded solemnly, as if she’d just read me my Miranda rights. My fat would be calculated, and there was no escape.

Squeezing my flesh with the sadistic contraption took about 10 minutes, but in body dysmorphia years, it felt like an eternity. Once the pinching concluded, Schofield uploaded my measurements into U.P.’s proprietary system — an app that functions like a fitness diary for the hyperdisciplined. There, she showed me an accountability dashboard, which keeps track of weight, body fat, progress photos, training plans, nutrition logs, and more. U.P. isn’t just for working out — this was an all-encompassing, high-surveillance lifestyle program.

The gym’s clients — celebrity and otherwise, I’m reminded — are kicked into rigorously monitored, science-backed regimens: body fat measured every two weeks, calorie targets adjusted, workouts tailored, progress tracked obsessively. The support doesn’t only arrive in-session. “You could text your trainer at 2 p.m. with a dinner menu, and we’ll tell you what to order,” she said.

I asked if they ever go easier on celebrities. I mean, I work in TV — I know firsthand that this town runs on flattering famous people and pretending it’s normal. And, surely, sometimes Dustin Hoffman wants to eat a croissant in peace. Emily stared at me for a beat, like I’d asked if they train dogs. “All our clients are treated the same,” she said. “No one gets special treatment.”

I then threw out a hail Mary, asking if celebrities are just… built differently than mere mortals. Like, do they know weight-loss hacks the rest of us aren’t told about? Schofield shut that down, too. “Losing body fat isn’t rocket science,” she said. “You just have to be in a caloric deficit. Not sexy — just effective.” She showed me a wall of before-and-after photos: nonfamous people who, thanks to the brutally efficient program, now had shredded torsos, sculpted arms, and the smug energy of someone who owns multiple shaker bottles.

Still, I pressed. Isn’t it easier for celebrities or VIP clients to hit their goals? With their home chefs and designer smoothies and emotional support saunas, it had to be. Could someone like me, armed only with gumption and a pantry full of Trader Joe’s packaged snacks, really get the same results? She didn’t hesitate. “Anyone can do it. It’s not about access to fancy resources.” Easy for her — she of the $275-per-hour rate — to say, I thought.

After I had been thoroughly humbled in the private room, it was time for the main event: the workout. She put me through a punishing 45-minute full-body circuit that included pulldowns, rows, squats, back extensions, and a rotating cast of other moves designed to make me question every life choice that led to this moment.

Usually, I half-ass most moves at the gym, phoning it in with sloppy form, skipping reps when my $75-per-hour trainer looks away. But that was not an option here. Schofield watched me like a hawk (or like I was a celebrity), correcting every wobble, slowing down my movements, forcing me to pause for extra burn, and making each exercise feel 400% more agonizing, and, probably, more effective. After just one round of weighted split squats, I was cooked.

As I braved another brutal round of weighted squats (thighs shaking, vision going slightly gray), she casually remarked in her Australian lilt, “I haven’t even pushed you that hard yet. You’re complaining a bit.” I wanted to cry, but I’d already sweated out all my moisture.

Finally, when the circuits were over, I began to mentally celebrate a job well done. Except I was not done. Emily then delivered the worst news yet: I’d be ending the workout by pushing a giant sled across the gym floor. I’d only ever seen a “fitness sled” in Men’s Journal spreads about Chris Hemsworth, and — legs jelly, spirit dim — I was feeling far from Thor-like. Still, I summoned my inner Dustin Hoffman and pushed. “Faster!” Schofield shouted. I considered faking an injury. Anything to avoid pushing that sled.

But somehow — like a young Benjamin Braddock off to catch the love of my life, whom I’d destroyed by sleeping with her mother, Mrs. Robinson — found the resolve to make it what felt like 400 miles (less than 50 feet) across the fancy gym. It was hell — and then euphoria. The hardest workout of my life was complete. I felt lit up, strong, and closer than ever to understanding the grind behind a true Hollywood glow-up. Dustin Hoffman would be proud.