The Dreadmill

Ahhh - the New Year.

A time of new beginnings. New DIEts. And new sentences that begin with "This year immagonna..."

I freakin' hate this time of year.

But as my toddler is encroaching upon his second year of life, and my personal space, with an alarming speed, I have decided that I need to at least be able to, ya know, GET MY FAT ASS OFF THE COUCH IN UNDER THREE MINUTES!

We all need goals, people.

So today, January 10th, I stared at The Treadmill. I loathe that name - "Treadmill," it's like someone naming their kid something that will guarantee to get them beat up in the playground. And the name itself just makes me wanna stay far, far, away as I think only thin people with words written on the butt of their sweats ever actually GET on the cursed things.

So I quickly emailed a very smart friend and asked her if she would help me rename it.

And thus began the life of "THE DREADMILL."

I approached the large monster holed up in the corner of my basement with trepidation.

Sighing, I started to look for the button to release it from its resting position and lower the belt so I could then haul my pudgy ass upon it.

Fifteen minutes pass while I yell, scream, cry, giggle and slap at The Dreadmill.

And then I found the knob. Hiding in plain sight.

The fat girl in me wanted to retreat. To go into the downstairs kitchen and pull out a glass bottle of coveted Coca-cola and waddle to the overstuffed leather couch to watch "Dinosaur Train" with my baby boy.

But I pulled up my big girl stretch pants, shifted my boobs back into their cups and re-pulled my ponytail into a sloppy bun.

I was determined.

I was ON THIS.

I was GOING THE LIMIT!

I was out of frickin' breath!

Two minutes in and I'm keeling over the rails like an 80-year-old smoker with black lung. Actually, my grandfather died of black lung and I'm pretty sure that in the weeks preceding his death, he could've ran circles around me - with his walker.

Ten minutes later I shove off of The Dreadmill and duck-walk back to the couch vowing never to approach the beast again whilst sober. About the time I'm deciding to start drinking for my new New Year's resolution my toddler comes up to me, rests his tiny blonde head on my chubby knee and sighs deeply. And I know then - I will be back on The Dreadmill by morning.

Even if it kills me.

Which it probably will.