Friday, January 4, 2013

Me and My Treadmill – Moving Beyond the Hate

I'm trying to have a good attitude about my fatally boring treadmill, since it's winter in New England and all, meaning butt cold, and I don't want to walk outside. (People do, believe me, I drove past three girls jogging together, but that sounds even less fun to me than trudging along on my treadmill.) There's an ice sculpture in front of the local bank and it hasn't melted an iota since New Year's Eve. "That's just wrong," I said to Husband today. "We live in a bad place."

No, I love New England, I'm just grouchy. And crampy and hormonal. Guess what time it is? (I'll leave you in suspense, we've journeyed into my demonic uterus enough lately.)

My daughter inspired me last night; we were watching Pitch Perfect on DVD and Li'l Martini got up to get some ice cream; I asked, "Are you having some?" and I could see her think about it, clearly struggling between warring impulses — and then she said, "No." She's lost some weight and is getting so many compliments, I think she's feeling really good about herself right now, and I was proud to see her make this hard decision and stick to it.

And so tonight I decided to be Role Model Mommy, stuffing myself into a sports bra, strapping on my sneaks, and pounding out two sweaty miles, then lifting weights. I am wiped. And I also eschewed a glass of wine with lunch and enjoyed a splendid hour with Husband cold sober. (I'm sure he appreciated the sacrifice.) There may also have been some pre-lunch nuzzling, but I'll never tell.

I'm really really trying to come to a Zen place with my treadmill. Trying.

(Cindy Glamour advised me to listen to good music while treadmilling, and that definitely helps. Tonight I worked through the "H" section on my iPod — Diana Ross and the Supremes singing "The Happening," the Bangles singing "Hazy Shade of Winter," Rachel Sweet singing "Hairspray," and the Go-Go's singing "Head Over Heels." Great music, great beats — but I still get bored.)

All this had better result in a good weigh-in tomorrow — I am ready to see that scale needle move!

Except — oh, crap. Totally forgot my hormones . . . which will have something to say about my weight. O how I love being a girl.

Oh, well. I will take my bath and stop eating for the night and just see what happens. What else can I do?

Off to bathe myself thin! TGIF, friendys!

—Lady C


  1. If it's any consolation to you, I hate the treadmill, too. Nasty thing. But necessary, I suppose.

    1. Husband hates it too because our treadmill is in the basement, where he tries to hide all the crap he hoards**, and I come upstairs from treadmilling barking, "You have GOT to GET RID OF some of this CRAP!!!" There's nothing else to do but walk and obsess, man.

      ** He would say, "all the vital documents and literature that are ESSENTIAL to my scholarly endeavors." Potato, potahto.