That dreadful machine. It perplexes me. Running? On purpose? Away from… the free weights?
I know I’ve got a double standard here. I have learned to appreciate the rowing machine, after all. I have forgiven it’s lack of water and destination. And the elliptical? That’s not even pretending to do anything other than firm up your butt and make you sweat. Theoretically, my time on the rowing machine is developing some kind of skill that might be useful here in this landlocked state. There are rivers. I’m told zombies don’t swim well. What if I happened upon a conveniently placed rowboat on the Red River while trying to escape the infected hordes? (Yeah, I’d still be outta luck. Don’t know if you’ve seen the Red River, but it’s a whole lot of red and not a lot of river.) There is a rowing team at work not that I’ve even considered joining it.
But what good are the smooth low-impact leg movements of the elliptical going to do for me? Don’t eat me! Surely toned thighs would be stringy and unpalatable. Right? And I’m pretty sure there are no elliptical teams out there.
Okay, so I don’t go to the gym to develop any useful skills. I go to the gym because I really like food. Liking food+a family history of diabetes+a desire to fit into my clothing+a certain amount of vanity=time in the gym. I even wear sensible shoes for the occasion. Also, I’m with Jennifer Lawrence on the whole ‘diet’ thing.
If anybody even tries to whisper the word ‘diet’, I’m like, ‘You can go f*ck yourself.’”
Maybe I’m too hard on the old treadmill. But I can’t very well start running now. My Twitter blurb tells the internet that I’m the one that shoots, not the one that runs. (a Google search on my name used to return results for a Dutch marathon runner.) Twitter blurbs are forever and must absolutely be true. Who am I to go against what I said about myself on the Twitter? You already know what happened last time I tried running. I “won” a medal.
Even now it waits for me. Standing quietly upstairs. Or maybe it’s whirring along entertaining the thump thump of another’s feet.
Maybe I should give it another shot. It always looks so lonely. It wasn’t the treadmill that betrayed me on the corporate challenge field. Besides, ammo is finite and if the zombies chase me to the Red River, running would be a better option than rowing.