I hit a wall not too long ago at 271lbs, I was literally big as a house and not feeling very good physically or mentally. If you were at the right angle I resembled a hairy version of Shrek with a farmer’s tan. I finally broke down and decided I needed to make some changes in my life. Get bigger pants, drink more water, cut out the fast food and get my “BigBootay” on the dreaded treadmill.
I hated that treadmill. It was a monster, constantly mocking me. I’d hide it in dark corners of the garage, cover it with towels or stack the dog food on her. It didn’t matter where we lived, or what room I hid her in, she was always covered with something and yet I could always hear her snickering as I happened by. It was the most expensive clothes hanger I’d ever owned. I knew though, if this was going to work we’d have to have some kind of “come to Jesus” meeting, some common ground, something mutual. Maybe we could be friends, maybe we’d grow on each other. I began to hope.
At first it was very nice, for me anyway, as I dropped almost immediately to 254. My boxers had stopped making those irritating red marks on my belly and the XXL t’s were covering nicely. But my love for her was fleeting as our one-side relationship turned sour almost just as fast as it had gone well. Those first precious pounds must’ve been “water” weight because to my shock and horror, I was back at 260 and the honeymoon had quickly ended. I was finding it hard to be friends with her, let alone love her. Our relationship was crumbling and rather than try to fix it, I did the opposite, I began to push her… harder!
Between the weekend sneaking Big Mac’s, Tina barging in on me in the garage saying she smelled something burning “like rubber” as I trudged away on her, and that damn treadmill herself shooting digital messages to me like “GET OFF”… “www.tummytuck.com”… “Please, one person at a time!” I was losing the battle, not sure how much longer I could go on.
I trudged on determined to break through the barriers that stood before me and one of those Ricky Martin sweater’s. After the weekend at SWC trekking miles from car to event, back and forth from concert to concert, and then event to car, I was sure I had dropped a few on my own, without the assistance of my love. I was so confident of the workout all the super chicken burritos, macho nachos and deep fried twinkies would surely be offset. I couldn’t wait to get home and kick it up on my lovely little treadmill and watch it start melting away.
Awe, success, 258! Here we go baby it’s all downhill from here. Sunday night, Monday night, Tuesday night grinding through the treadmill motivated by my iPod and the worship coming through from Foss, Fisher, TobyMac, Matthew West, Chris Tomlin and countless others. I looked the other way when the digital taunts started. I buried my nose in my pits to drown out the “burning rubber”. I even kicked it up a notch to 3.1 on the speed dial or just under a 20 minute mile for you treadmill connoisseurs!
Then… disaster struck! As I cooled down from the end of my walk, it happened out of nowhere. My treadmill, my love, she just stopped dead in my tracks. I couldn’t believe it. Without warning at all her motor just up and quit! I tried desperately to resuscitate her, using my vast technical knowledge, unplugging and plugging her back in, nothing! I kicked her (not a good idea in flip flops), I shook her. I pushed all her buttons, twice, but nothing. She was gone. I screamed, “She’s goooonnnnneeee ohhh IIIII, I better learn how to face it, she’s gone!” I hated her! How could she let me down like this?
I read some discriminating leaflet about not to exceed 250lbs, some stupid line about burning rubber, a long ago out dated warranty card, I slid to the floor, I huffed a bit, and then it hit me again – she was gone alright and this time for real, “She’s goooonnnnneeee ohhh IIIII, I better learn how to face it, she’s gone!”. I couldn’t differentiate the tears on my face from the sweat. Soaked to the skin in both, I crawled to the garage fridge and grabbed a frozen snickers bar to help mask the pain.
I didn’t need that lousy treadmill, I hate her, I kicked her again (and again, not a good idea in flip flops)! I limped back into the house, afraid to tell Tina I broke her treadmill (and probably my foot). I knew she’d just use it as a way to force me to go to the gym with her. I’d have to figure this one out, a way to not let her notice. Maybe just hose myself down with the garden hose every night before I come back in from the garage. I could use a lighter on Aric’s bike tires to simulate the “burning rubber.” Yes, that just might work.
I slid into the bathroom to take my shower and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I turned profile. I sucked my gut in, that didn’t work, so I pushed my belly up towards my chest. Despite my now hairy c-cups nearly choking me, it wasn’t too bad. No, not bad at all. I spun around and caught myself in a Charlie’s Angels pose, yes!
Yeah, 258 baby… How you doin?
