Our treadmill lives in our closet, where it has befriended shoes, belts, assorted hats, slacks and a couple of leather jackets.
I hate treadmills in general, because they’re boring and they cause me to sweat, which is not how I envision living my life. However, my husband jumps on the thing every morning and runs nowhere for forty minutes on a flat setting, then proceeds to work out with barbells.
I’ve found I can force myself to use the thing by employing a great deal of escapism.
By pinning a scenic calendar up on the wall, I can envision my walk through boat marinas, beaches, or over poppy-covered desert paths. When I’m especially lazy, I justify less treadmill time by raising the angle and lessening the pace.
My eyes were just starting to open one morning when I heard something in our bedroom. I sat up and saw my husband crawling out of the closet, around the bed to lie on his back, panting. His face was red and sweat was trickling into his ears. He managed to gasp out, “I don’t know what’s wrong. I could only do twenty minutes on the treadmill this morning.” He checked his pulse and mopped his face with a little towel. “I’m just weak for some reason. Even after I slowed down, I still couldn’t make it very long. I better call the doctor.”
I wasn’t sure if I should tell him I’d had a fairly nice climb at a 15% grade up a Colorado mountainside the previous evening, or just let him call the doctor.