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It's an unseasonably snowy Saturday morning in March, and I'm in a Manhattan CrossFit gym surrounded by throngs of the ultrafit, including a guy someone referred to earlier as "The Mountain."

This is not what you might call my natural habitat, which you would know if you could see me just now, hanging from a metal pull-up bar with one foot trapped in an elastic sling. The sling was supposed to help my body fight the forces of gravity, but instead it just yanked my left foot up into self-butt-kicking position, leaving my right foot to swat impotently at a pile of gym mats for a foothold. I'd be humiliated if I had any electrolytes to spare on the act of feeling humiliation.

How did I get here?

I began the year staring down the barrel at 30, with my fitness an all-time low. My idea of a marathon involved watching ten seasons of Friends on Netflix in thirty days. The last time I attempted to tuck in my shirt, I was more muffin top than man.

So I panicked. I went on a diet consisting almost entirely of office break room coffee, thinking that if I peeled away those extra pounds like so many layers of sedimentary fat, I'd rediscover a faint outline of abdominals.

When that didn't work, I decided to try CrossFit.

If you don't frequent one of their 5,000-odd affiliates gyms nationwide, here's a CrossFit primer: The program is all about strength training and conditioning. Workouts are highly varied, mixing aerobics, gymnastics, and Olympic weight lifting. On the day of my deflowering, a group of other ercisers and I gather for our WOD ("workout of the day"), a "Half Cindy." A "Cindy" is a benchmark circuit. It's designed to help you track your fitness progress. Do it every once in a while and see how you've improved over last time.

A Cindy lasts twenty minutes and consists of as many rounds you can do of the following: five pull-ups, ten push-ups, and fifteen air squats, in that order. A "Half Cindy" only lasts ten minutes—so, half a "Cindy." Most people can get through five cycles before time is up. By now it should be clear that I am not most people. While my classmates get their heart rate up jumping rope, I get my heart rate up by untangling my jump rope.

I've brought two friends with me. My female friend clocks in over three rounds of pull-ups, push-ups, and squats. My male friend breezes smugly through five. I get through two. Our scores go on a whiteboard at the front of the class. My instructor generously asks if maybe I got through some more pull-ups after my second set. I mutter something, and she adds a feeble "+2 pull-ups" to my score. Little mercies.

On my way out, I nod a thank you to our instructor. She nods back. Her warm smile says "See you again soon." But her eyes say, "Have a nice life." Or at least I assume they would be if I weren't avoiding eye contact.

And yet, as excruciating muscle soreness begins to set in, I begin to feel a faintly familiar enthusiasm. I remember what it felt like to ercise when I was younger. I remember the physical euphoria that comes with a hard workout. I'm not saying I'm gonna go back to CrossFit, but I am saying that I dug up an old pull-up bar at the back of my closet. I like the idea of getting back into shape, at my own pace and in my own space. At home, no one can hear you scream.

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