Run Awaaaaaaaay!

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. 

Crap.

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!