Sometimes, like right now, when I've just stepped off the Evil Churner of Cramped Distress (i.e. my treadmill), and my breath is coming in short, prickly, acid-washed (but-not-in-the-kitschy-eighties-blue-jeans kind of way, but rather in the throw-acid-all-over-my-raw-and-flaming-lungs-and-lather-rinse-repeat kind of way) gasps of pain, I sometimes wonder whether or not it's all really worth it.
I mean, sure, I don't often get off the Evil Churner of Cramped Distress and say to myself, "Y'know, I really regret that. What a waste of time that was!" but at the same time, wouldn't I be just a little bit more at peace with it if I didn't feel like a slobbering, geriatric lump of whupped arse afterwards?
And also, if my brain doesn't start to register the difference between the incline button and the speed button pretty soon, I'm going to seriously hurt myself! There I am, going at a fairly even clip, whoosh-whoosh-whoosh goes the belt, pant-pant-pant goes the Mare, let's-try-a-little-hill goes the brain, 10-on-the-speed-dial goes the finger, and suddenly my legs are fly-ing! All that excess flesh in my thigh area is just a blur! The sweat on my skin is actually drying off because I've gone from generating the air that comes out of those little hand driers in public bathrooms to the mighty, mighty wind of a natural disaster usually seen only in the Philippines, or maybe, Hollywood. Mitch and Mickey, let's say.
But I still did it, dammit. That treadmill is totally going to be my bitch. And I mean it this time!
No, seriously, I really do!
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