I consider myself a fairly confident man. I have confidence because I am a bit delusional. I choose to look the other way and ignore the things that might shake my confident ways. For instance, I ignore the fact that I have consumed enough pizza and beer in the last 12 months that my belly appears to be in the early stages of a pregnancy’s third trimester. Eventually, I saw a photograph somebody tagged me in on Facebook that made me view things in a different way, like in an unfortunate side profile of myself sort of way. My current side profile includes a beer belly and multiple chins, which could provide confidence if I was a defensive lineman or a sumo wrestler. However, I’m neither of those things. I’m just a dude who got fat.
I had a decision to make. Give up beer and pizza and starve myself until I was thin, or join a gym and work out a lot so I can still eat cheese and bread. Full disclosure, I truly believe that beer, cheese, and bread are why we were put on this earth. Starving myself was out. I decided to join a gym. But I didn’t just join any gym that would allow me to walk on a treadmill at 2.5 miles per hour while watching multiple reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. That waste of time will only burn about 90 calories in an hour while simply drinking a can of Pepsi afterward adds 150 calories. That is going in the wrong direction for sure. Instead, I joined a gym called Orange Theory, and they tell me what to do and when to do it. There will be no walking and no televisions with Raymond on them. The idea is a high energy, one hour program that closely monitors a person’s individual heart rate. At Orange Theory, if you aren’t huffing and puffing, they can push you harder based on your heart monitor. To get myself into shape, all the gym wanted from me was three hours a week of my time and my credit card number, of course.
On my first day, I found myself in the gym at 6:15 in the morning. Yes, I actually woke up to an alarm just to go work out (an insane concept). I met the class instructor, Frankie, who was physically fit and filled with lots of energy (especially for 6:15 a.m.). Frankie wanted me to give her a high-five as we entered the gym. I consented to the high-five, even though it was the earliest high-five I had ever given in my lifetime. Frankie likes high energy and she likes her high-fives. As I drug my out-of-shape butt onto the treadmill, I saw large flat screens with names and heart monitor readings. Frankie explained they use color codes to help people know where they are at with their workout: gray, blue, green, orange, and red. The goal is to be in the orange zone—hence the name Orange Theory.
As soon as the treadmill started rolling, I was well past green and orange and steadily in the red zone. Nothing reminds you how out of shape you are like your first workout after it has been a while. For me, “a while” was like two decades. Man invented the automobile; I saw no reason to run anymore. But at Orange Theory I was running, and I was rowing, and I was walking with a rubber band holding my legs together. I was also doing push-ups and lifting weights while Katy Perry was pumped out of the stereo speakers and orange lights lit up the room. My first hour felt like four hours. I was tired; I was beat; essentially, I was dying. Frankie seemed un-phased by it all and wanted one more high-five before the class was over.
I gave her the high-five, then rushed out of the door and puked in the parking lot. It was only then that I realized why it is really called Orange Theory: My vomit was orange in color. I can’t believe I gave a company my credit card number so they can make me barf.
Rob works out Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays but generally only throws up on Fridays. To read more from Rob Krider or contact him, visit robkrider.com.
