James' World 2

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A few years ago, a beloved French bakery near my house closed and was replaced by a gym. So it goes with gentrification: Ease replaced by discipline. The new gym is part of the OrangeTheory chain, which is open only for classes, like a SoulCycle. It’s expensive, and the people I see coming out of there always look flushed and satisfied post-workout. I won’t make excuses or offer explanations. I’ll just skip to the part where I ended up joining.

At these gyms, you wear a heart monitor on your arm that is linked to a screen at the front of the room, on which everyone’s heart rate is displayed. Your name appears in a box that changes color from green to orange to red as your heart rate increases. The lights in the room are orange, and the music is incredibly loud. Every detail has been optimized for maximum motivation-juicing purposes. Previously, I had thought gyms like this were evil because exercise is supposed to be loose and creative, or something. I’ve changed my mind about that. I don’t have time for loose and creative workouts lately.

So there I was on a recent Saturday morning, having fully crossed over to the side I used to think I hated, and I was loving it. I was just getting into the second half of the class, my heart rate steady in the orange zone, when the trainer approached my rowing machine: “Kathryn, right? There’s someone here to see you.”

I looked up, and through the glass doors to the lobby, I saw … my 13-year-old son. He was in shower slides and pajamas, and he was holding my debit card up to the glass, beseeching me. Through the glass door, he mouthed: Can I use it? 

I gestured no with my whole body. I sent vibrational waves of no that, I was hoping, would be  palpable to him through the glass door. I frantically waved my hands for him to leave. GO, I mouthed, AWAY! He stood there for a minute, taking it in, and then he left. I looked up at the screen, and my heart rate was in the red zone. I was molten with anger.

What part of my parenting had failed to erect and maintain a boundary between my basically teenage son and my workout time? Why was there porousness there?! Where did he get the idea that he could interrupt my exercise class with a request like that?

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Illustration: Hannah Buckman

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