January 7, 2009
I can't remember if I've mentioned this before, but a few months ago I finally broke down and bought a treadmill of my own. There's only so much old-person flab-slapping this girl can handle, and at a small-town gym like mine, I'm overloaded every single time.
Since I'm reluctant to join the gym, I live in the tundra, and I'm a girl who likes to be able to fit her rear-end comfortably through all doorways, I finally decided that it was time to take the plunge.
I found the treadmill on Craigslist, and at the moment, it appeared to be a really great deal. It was two years old, my internet research revealed that it originally retailed for $1,295, and according to the friendly woman on the phone, it had only been used twice.
When I arrived at the house, the woman's honesty was confirmed. Based on the cavernous dents I saw on the ass cushions of the recliner couch, I'd say that she was right--the treadmill had only been used twice...by a ghost or something.
I gave the treadmill a whirl and found it to be a little bit jerky, but nothing I couldn't live with. After all, the treadmill only cost two-hundred dollars--and besides, it was probably only jerky from a lack of use. And from being used as a drying rack for all of those humungo-ginormous bras for the last two years.
We moved the treadmill into our basement, and up until last Sunday, I'd been logging twenty-or-so miles on it every week since--a jerky twenty miles, but twenty miles nonetheless.
And then it happened, my dreaded day of doom. At mile 1.8 the treadmill came to a screeching halt and hurled me right into my trophy shelf (I like to keep the trophies right behind me--that way it sets the scene when my husband walks down the stairs to say hello. He's like, "Wow, I really did marry a superstar...").
When he heard the noise, Jared bounded down the stairs as fast as he possibly could, sat me down on the futon and said, "Whoa, Amy, are you okay?"
And I was like, "No, I'm not okay! My treadmill's broken so I'M NOT OKAY!"
He hugged me.
"I don't want to be hugged," I said. "I want my damn treadmill to work again!"
Then I sobbed and heaved as I rambled on about the unjustness of being alive. "Ninety percent of treadmill owners never step on the thing," I exclaimed, pulling statistics straight out of my sweaty little bum. "I'm the only person in the entire universe who actually uses their treadmill and it goes and breaks on me! This isn't fair, Jared. THIS IS JUST NOT FAIR!"
"Maybe you can run outside until we get it fixed," he suggested--always the level headed one in the relationship.
And that made me sob even harder because, "I don't want to run outside, Jared! I have to wear clothes when I run outside!"
See, the thing is, shortly after I purchased my treadmill, I discovered the true beauty of at-home exercise: You can do it while your naked.
Don't get me wrong here, I'm not a nudist or anything, but for the last several months I'd been racking up my miles in nothing but a sports bra and a pair of Nike Frees. I won't lie, it really was quite exhilarating, but my motivation was simpler than that: it reduced my laundry burden like crazy--one trillion percent to be exact.
For the next week I moved my exercise routine to the stationary bike, which you most certainly cannot do without wearing a nice pair of thickly padded shorts. What a freakin' drag.
But this morning, I am very pleased to announce that I will commence running in my birthday suit immediately, at once, if not sooner. The slippery belt has been replaced, the pulley has been repositioned, and thankfully, my heart can sing once again.
I'm thankful for the little blessing in my life.