So, to go along with the Diet of Doom, I decided to procure a treadmill. I got one for free, from one of my employees who no longer used it.
Me: So is it heavy?
Sarah: I’ll ask the hubby
Sarah: He says meh
Me: Right on. I can handle it.
So I go over to her house after work and watch Dom magically maneuver the beast into the back of my car. No big deal! I can do this.
How wrong can one person be?
I got the thing out of the car, and it hit the ground with a horrifying THUD that put a big ol’ ditch in the dirt of my driveway. Cue a confused, concerned expression on my face, and when I attempted to push the thing, it wouldn’t budge. Uh oh.
Warily, I eyed the three steps up a rickety wooden staircase to my house. Hm. I got out a tape measure to make sure the damn thing would fit through the door (barely), and sighed. Inching the Beast towards the stairs, grunting and groaning, I couldn’t believe what a dumb idea this whole thing was, but it was going to rain, so leaving the thing outside was out of the question.
At the stairs, I laid it down… and of COURSE it was just *thismuch* too short to be put down and hit the top of the stairs. Somehow, some way, I had to figure out how to both lift and pull the beast, without breaking my back or gouging my stairs. “I wonder if the neighbors are laughing at me yet” I thought to myself, as I stood in the driveway panting and trying to figure out how the FUCK I was going to get this thing up the stairs.
You know when you have to carry something heavy up stairs… and they suddenly go from looking like, you know, three average sized stairs, to something like this?
Staircase of DOOM
Yeah, totally got that feeling, and a pit of dread in my stomach thinking I would not be able to do it, and would have to go find someone to help me like a failure.
After struggling futilely for a good twenty minutes, to somehow defeat the laws of physics and the strength of my own body (or lack thereof). I had a stroke of genius. After nearly popping a rib out of place and just about dislocating my hip, I scurried inside to get the box for my television, and put it under the first step. VOILA! I could get the thing up to the top step. Grrrrrooooaaaaaaaaan and it was up! Standing on the top step, all 180# of it, as I stood on the next step down gasping and wheezing. I managed to drag it into the living room, and that’s where it’s going to stay, as I don’t want to move it again. Fuck that shit.
So, yes, I do need the treadmill, as I’m quite obviously out of shape. Big Bertha is going to get a lot of use, methinks!
Ever overestimate your own strength? Tell me!
On the bright side that was quite the workout you had already right? All that work deserves a cookie or a beer.
Every time I try to use my treadmill it tries to kill me. I’m not even joking. Evidently these things can “skip”. So it’s been folded since Thanksgiving and Benjamin was all, “Why aren’t you using your treadmill?” and I said, “It wants to send me to an early grave via unwarranted propulsion” and he was like, “Well, read the instruction manual and see if you can fix it” and I was like, “The what now?” And then I went outside. Treadmill is still folded. I get to play outside. Win win.
DUDE. I WAS GOING TO WRITE ABOUT THAT TONIGHT.
Some fucktruck tried running on the newly christened “Dahmer”. The damn thing tried to SPIT ME OFF!!!
I have to agree you deserved a beer for your efforts. Maybe 6!
That is the worst feeling when you’ve gotten yourself in over your head. I think I woulda cried.
I yelled at it. My neighbors hate me, and they think I’m an insane murderer. Burying things in your front yard at 3AM tends to give people the wrong impression….