So, being determined to break my fat ass out of the fat farm and get somewhere to a relatively in-shape person who doesn’t resemble the Michelin Man, I got the treadmill. See prior post. And in this attempt to get physically fit, I’ve been spending an hour a day on the fucking thing. Yay? It’s actually not too bad, all things considered, since a) no one can see me in my house, and b) I get to watch crappy TV at full volume without being judged.
The downside, you ask?
My treadmill is possessed. Yes, folks, it is possessed by the ghosts of sprinters past.
Today I got to go home early, so I tralalaaaa’d my way home, eager to get on the beast (previously named Big Bertha) and do a good jaunt before sitting McLardButt down on the couch to watch EVEN MORE TV and screw around on the interwebz.
Hey, here’s a good idea! Let’s do intervals and work on our cardio! Yeah! In shape here I come *flexes muscles menacingly*
So I got on Big Bertha and did a few intervals, and was feeling pretty damn good about myself. 45 minutes? Yeah? NO PROBLEM! Let’s get this party started!
And then…. Big Bertha earned her new name and gender…. Dahmer.
Yes, folks, my treadmill is trying to kill me.
At the 45 minute mark, I was feeling pretty confident… pretty on top of the world, shall we say. I pumped up the speed to the jogging speed, to do another interval…. and Dahmer decided it was time to play “how fast do your fucking legs move, there’s a serial killer chasing you”, which is not entirely funny, per se, on a machine or in real life. I jumped off like a motherfucking ninja, stopped the beast and glared at it, and wondered what the fuck world the setting I’d put it on equaled “full on sprint RUN FOR YOUR LIIIIIIIIIIVES”….
And like a complete dumbfuck? I did it a few more times before finally deciding that, in order to operate this POS, all running shall occur before the 45 minute mark of my workout. Full stop.
Dahmer, you win this round, you stupid bastard.
Devil machine. *sprays holy water on it*
Anyone know a treadmill exorcist?
good luck on finding an exorcist! a treadmill would be my favored choice of torture.. instead, I have a “coat rack” that is a ski machine, and a bike. i don’t like using them, because of my height challenged self, my legs barely make the reach and it hurts more than necessary to make me say “fuck this”. if i had a treadmill.. i’d be on that. unless of course, it was named dahmer, and possessed.
HAHA I have the opposite problem! I’m too tall for this thing, so using the rails if I want to hold on? Not so hot. Crunching over is ridiculous.
Yeah I made similar misjudgement on a stair-master many eons ago. I figured “30 minutes walking up fictional stairs? Pffft I got this.” Well, 3 minutes in I was ready to kill myself by hurling myself down the fictional stairs…
And if I may be so bold, while I am all for getting into better shape (Zombie Jesus knows I could lose quite a bit myself) you are not anywhere close to michelin (wo)man status.
Awww shucks *blush*
bahahahahaha… I’m actually kind of grateful that my knees don’t allow me to run on a treadmill… those things are fucking evil… along with elipticals… seriously.. who invented those fucking things???? NO I DON’T WANT TO RUN AND SKI AT THE SAME TIME ALL IN MID AIR!!!
The ellipticals fuck with my joints…I feel like I’m falling apart when I use them!
Yikes! I can come give it a communion Pop-Tart if you think that’ll help. Or we can just eat them while we kick the treadmill.
They make communion Pop-Tarts?
If they made communion doughnuts, I might be convinced to start going to church…