Life is hard. As someone who gets paid to sit in dimly-lit rooms in front of brightly-lit screens while mindlessly eating pizza for hours, life was made considerably harder. I had tried running regimens, big-box gym memberships, and doing like ten sit-ups once a week—nothing stuck. It was too cold to run, or the gym was crowded, or a new season of House of Cards had come out. I had resigned myself to fate.
Then one day my girlfriend forced me to accompany her to a “gym” where people were putatively “working out” or perhaps “crossing fit” or something. There was heavy breathing and rapid body movement. I was exhorted to “burpee.” But it was fun. And personal. Caring. We made friends. I did a pull-up. My girlfriend became my wife. And over time my pale pizza frame toughened into something resembling a fit human male, and I was no longer out of breath from lifting a slice to my face, and I stopped slouching, and whenever I entered a room every person there turned to me subconsciously, heliotropismally — I was their Sun. All because of Old City CrossFit.