October 11th, 2005

In A Shadowplay, Acting Out Your Own Death

I'm planning on putting my Prosperity Dividend, should it ever arrive, toward the purchase of a new treadmill (BTW, thanks for paying $3 a gallon everyone). Having switched from a job hefting bundles of mags every day to sitting at a desk on the phone, I need to get up off my fat ass because JEEeezz woman! Enough already!

My mother has leant me her treadmill for the time being. Until they build their house next year, they're in a trailer Ready to Move Home which doesn't have space for large exercise equipment. This is my chance to prove to myself and Mr. W that a thousand-dollar plus investment is not going to turn into a clothes hanger.

So, my new gym is quite nice. The walls may have puppies and airplanes on them, but the hours are good and the clientele seems rather sweet. Plus they stock my brand of shampoo, and my shows are always on the TV. The only real drawbacks are as follows: A) The treadmill sounds like a fully operational large-scale milling machine when it's running and B) The treadmill is obviously designed for SHORT people. I think the belt is less than 45" long, which is fine for my 5'3" mom, OK for 5'8" me and downright silly for my 6'1" husband. He needs another 10" on the belt to accommodate the ridiculously long legs for which I married him.

I'm going to hurt bad tomorrow, because listening to Joy Division apparently gives me the urge to run. Most people run to the sounds of Kylie Minogue or something, right? It's strange what motivates a former Goth girl.
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