I get home from work yesterday after navigating the racing strip that is Route 60. Running in, I ditch my morbid black shirt, pants, shoes and throw on shorts (that I didn't even know I owned!) and a sleeveless tee courtesy of Harry.
I put on my sneakers, grabbed a bottle of water and was seriously rockin' a kick ass pony tail-headband combo when I stepped on to the machine.
I was ready to walk.
I love my new treadmill - it has all the bells and whistles and - a television in it! Yes, you read that right! I can now walk at 3.2 miles per hour while watchng tv!
I straddle the belt like the salesmen told me - greatly reducing my risk of flying back and landing in the closet amidst old Christmas decorations - and start pushing buttons. I decide to start slow since my aerobic activity as of late has been close to that of roadkill.
So what do I watch while slowly ambling along? Foodnetwork. The process of eating too much has landed me on a moving sidewalk to nowhere yet I still feel the need to see how Sandra Lee and her Vodka-filled fake booples will make a banana cream cake. It's torture.
After five minutes I decide to increase the speed and began a brisk walk - all the while clutching the handle bars for dear life. I surprise myself by not hating it. I blame the mini television. Pop a tv in anything and it will make the enjoyment factor increase by 75% - at least.
After twelve minutes I call it quits. I have done all I can and my chubby pale speckled legs are jell-o-fied. I climb the stairs in a wobbly motion and remember that I still have to make dinner.
Now - sane people would have collapsed on the couch, but I had a movie date in an hour to see "The Lake House" with Tiffany so I slapped together a Turkey sandwich with a teeny bit of mustard and sat on a stool in my kitchen.
Where I turn on the tv.
And watch Foodnetwork.
After resting a bit and deciding to vaseline up my plentiful thighs next time before setting my shorts on fire from friction while walking on my new treadmill, I get dressed and find Tiffany downtown at Empire with her boyfriend.
He's reading National Geographic and looking quite intelligent. She is reading Cooking Light and looking quite entranced by a cobbler-ish picture on the cover. Great minds think alike!
We go to buy our tickets.
"One for Boat - shoot - Lake House, please." I say and hand over my money.
"One for Lake House and one for Superman at ten," I hear her say. I look at her and she shrugs.
At this point the smell of freshly popped popcorn and butter substitute wafts from the snack counter inside. I figure, wrongly, that since I did a whole TWELVE minutes on my treadmill-o-pain that I am deserving of a small popcorn with a smidgen of butter-stuff and a bucket-o-cherry Icee.
I order my snacks, looking at the forbidden popcorn/icee fruit with fervor and glee and then "Uh - your card doesn't work." The girl, about fifteen and in serious need of a deep-conditioning treatment, tells me.
"I'm sure it does. Here, try again." I watched her screen as it blipped, beeped and then read TIMEOUT.
"Hey - if it says TIMEOUT does that mean it's down?" she yells over her shoulder at a tall man weilding a mop.
"I guess so," he helpfully answers back.
"You can go to the ATM downstairs. I'll hold this here." And she pulls my treasures away from my out-stretched hands.
I have a choice to make here. I can either swallow my pride and dignity and walk down the stairs, pay the surcharge on the ATM and then pay, in cash, MORE for my over-priced popped corn than I would have normally, or I can do that other thing, that thing I do very rarely - I can choose not to eat the nutritionally hampering food and save $10 at the same time.
"I'm not walking all the way downstairs just for popcorn," I say to her. She blinks. I take it thatshe gets my underlying meaning of her vast imcompetentness. "Thanks, anyway," I say.
I chew gum throught the movie and left the movie feeling weepy (it's a rather sad flick) yet owning not a single stain of popcorn grease on my clothing. A first, that's for sure!