Tales from the Treadmill

My treadmill and I have an incredibly tumultuous relationship. It's very Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown-esque, you see. Sometimes we love deeply, other times we fight intensely. But, at the end of the day the fact remains that I need the treadmill in order to remain a sane, functioning member of this society. No, really: I am the most terrible, awful human beast woman you have ever met in your life when I have not had the opportunity to run. And I sometimes suspect my treadmill knows this. Which is probably why I despise it so much.

Our issues typically come to a head in the winter months, what with the fact that there is little sunlight remaining when I arrive home from work. That, and I do not have any interest whatsoever in waking up early during the week to run outdoors by myself. Mostly because I treasure my sleep, but also because I have a legitimate perceived fear of being kidnapped and murdered. Hey I live in a small rural town and I watch the news. So, I totally know how running alone in the middle of nowhere works when there are people who creepily drive unmarked vans.

But enough about my personal paranoia.

Our treadmill is located in the basement, which means that it really does not need to be terrible for any other reason than that. No one wants to hang out in the basement, except the dogs who spend most of their day down there in cages. They clearly didn't even have a say in the matter, either.

To make matters worse, I have been too lazy to call DirecTV the satellite signal is not working in the basement. So, when I run on the treadmill I'm just stare at the wall instead of watching a television program. Which I do, naturally. While listening to a Johnny Cash-Lady Gaga-Justin Beiber song mixture.

Whatever works, right?