Every day I run for 38 minutes on my treadmill and I hate it.
I’m actually afraid to say I hate things because once I decide I hate something I reallyhate it. Like the last winter I spent working much of the time outside before shifting to an inside job, I did a silly thing and decided I hated winter.
Canadians who decide they hate winter aren’t smart Canadians.
I’d worked outside for years before that and never had an attitude problem until the moment I decided “Working outside isn’t bad enough, maybe I’ll add a terrible attitude?”, so when I say I hate running on the treadmill I don’t really mean it because I would never run again if I did.
It’s not something I HAVE to do, it’s something I GET to. Whenever I’m trying to GET to do something I find a way to make it enjoyable. I enjoy listening to all sorts of podcasts and that’s where I do it.
It’s actually been working for me. I don’t know why I do it for 38 minutes, just that I went from 15 to 38 one day and found my mojo and have been doing it ever since… until I decide I hate the number 38, or the number 3, or the number 8.
It’s decently predictable that at the 28:37 mark my motion detected lights in the furnace room turn off and I’m left running in the dark with the decision to stay in the groove and attempt ten more minutes and possibly die, or dismount and turn the lights back on. I think I’ve only had the thought one time before the 28:37 mark that I could probably reset the lights in a conveniently lighted room if I actually remembered to do it. Every other time it’s a surprise.
I kind of enjoy surprises, just not bad surprises… I hate those.
Don’t bad-surprise me at staff if it’s something that should have hit the agenda the night before.
Don’t bad-surprise me because you just mentally panicked about something you forgot and need to drag me under with you.
Don’t bad-surprise me with “Oh and I should maybe have mentioned _____ about _____ person” as I’m walking into a meeting with them because you felt I needed information filtered earlier because I’m not as smart as you.
Good-surprise me with fun stuff!
Our kids run a packed Venue small group downstairs while we run a packed one upstairs. When all the people come or go my long suffering wife has a house to clean. I’m a decent host and get the coffee and tea on and make sure people have everything they need when they’re here, but she ends up doing the cleanup because she’s amazing.
I just need less “amazing” when I’m running on the treadmill.
So far I haven’t died or needed skin grafts, but I will if she turns on the Vacuflo one more time when I’m running five feet away from it. The first time it happened I assumed a jet plane was landed in my basement, so horrific a noise it made. Just imagine innocently trying retain the physique of a Greek god, then WHAM! Jet plane!!!
That is to say I would have the body of a Greek god if hamburgers weren’t so delicious. The reason I listen to podcasts while on the treadmill is to drown out bodily protests to exercise such as “People die doing this buddy!” and “Your wife will love you no matter what you look like!”. Both of the latter are true and that’s lends to their cowardly power.
You might also note that if it kills me I also wouldn’t also need skin grafts, but I’d like to leave a decent looking corpse behind in case someone wanted a final pic with NOT road-rashed Corey to post to Instagram. #heleftustoosoon #hiswifedidit
A thought struck me one night. This doesn’t happen often, normally I drown out thinking with Hip Hop, but this one hurt:
“Do you think Erin just randomly decides to vacuum? You really ARE an idiot.”
I wish my brain showed a little more respect, but it might be on to something.
I wonder how many mornings the jet takes off after a disagreement with my wife?
Not cool Erin, not cool.