Despite my last post, it turns out that I have one other thing to confess: I’ve been using the treadmill a lot lately. Normally, I can count on one hand the number of times I use a treadmill in a year. I still need only one hand for this year…as long as that hand has eight fingers.
It’s a Vicious Cycle. (Lance, you may use this title for your next autobiography with my blessing.*)
I’ve definitely been tougher in years past. It would have taken a frigid one-digit Fahrenheit day or several inches of snow or an engrossing episode of Cougar Town to keep me inside and resigned to the mill. Oh, I hate it so. But, this winter, I’ve stepped outside to test the temperature and, frankly, haven’t liked the cock-eyed look that oak tree was giving me and decided to head to the mill. Thirty degrees? Yeah, but it’s WINDY so it feels like negative twenty. One time I even convinced myself that it was National Nipple Day and that it would be wrong to have them sticking out and getting all scraped up from the cold on NND.
You know what you don’t watch while on the treadmill? TBS. The Superstation. They play all of those mind numbingly bland sitcoms from the 90’s. The commercials breaks last nearly five minutes giving you plenty of time to keep consulting the distance and count the hundredths of a mile one.digit.at.a.time. Everybody Loves Commercials! I’ve also become familiar with every nook and cranny of the basement within my sight line from the deck of the mill. Guess who has eight fingers and doesn’t dust much?
It’s Tuesday and I have five miles scheduled. I won’t feel guilty getting on the mill today though. It was -2 degrees Fahrenheit when I drove my filly to school. Negative two? That’s a solid, completely legit reason right there.
If yer nose hairs crystallize when inhaling, you might be a treadmiller.
If yer penis becomes a scared turtle, you might be a treadmiller.
If winter comes inside and slams the door saying It’s too cold out there, you might be a treadmiller.
If yer goosebumps develop goosebumps and those goosebumps’ teeth are chattering, you might be a treadmiller.
If yer….you get the point.
That was surprisingly easy. Hey Foxworthy, give me several million please.
You can all leave your I would never run on a treadmill. That’s not real running hur hur comments if you want. I’ve made a few myself over the years. And no, it’s not “real” running. It’s near running. As Zima is to beer, the treadmill is to running. But it’s good enough for this genetically finger deformed circus freak this winter. Let the vicious cycle loop de loop begin! The gentle whir of the mill is the sound of my running manliness escaping like air from a balloon.
Ever see a guy with 23 fingers on one hand? I think you are about too.
* I was recently sent an article that seemed to be suggesting that you morning coffee drinkers (myself included) are perpetrating the same body altering fraud as Armstrong’s purposeful hundreds of million dollar earning, Tour winning, doping scam. And your milk hormone drinking kids too! I would link it here but I can’t stop laughing and, also, don’t want to spread this Looney Tunes. False equivalent much? Obfuscate much? Oh, my. At first I thought it was one of those sly witty articles from The Onion or something but, sadly, no luck. I’ve always been an Armstrong fan too but this…this…was way too much. Maybe at a future date I’ll share with you. Armstrong fans (again, myself included), get over it. Dude cheated. Don't try to pretend that my lying about the size of my
On a side note, I stepped on a spider in my house the other day. It dawned on me: I’m doing the same thing as people who slaughter defenseless elephants for their tusks. The madness must stop.