My brain is tired. The kind of morning after tired when you took sleeping pills or OD’d on Benadryl the night before. It’s the kind of tired where everything is hazy, and it is perfectly acceptable to lie on the couch staring at the TV even though you’re not really watching it. I drifted off into a conscious sleep this morning. One minute I was watching Sister, Sister and the next minute The 700 Club. It was like being in alternate universes. It was at that point that I decided to walk the treadmill.
Now, very strange things happen when I am on this thing. First off all, I seem to get all the best ideas for my blogs while walking that thing. And I never want to stop, and very seldom have a pen and paper hanging off the safety string so most of the time they get lost in a puddle of sweat and dignity when my adventure is over. So on this fine morning, I thought to myself, “Self, you have a very expensive gadget, commonly referred to as a cell phone, at your disposal, and it probably has a voice recorder on it. If you use it, you could totally justify the extra $30 a month you pay the man”. Sure enough, there it was, and off I went, rambling non-sensically into my phone making statements, at time leaving tiny synopsis’ like I was a therapist and my puppies were sitting there telling me their deepest, darkest secrets, and eventually I was doing bad impressions. God help me if my neighbor walked by when I was amusing myself because he might have felt the need to call for assistance and then those men in the white scrubs would come and give me one of those lovely jackets that allow me to hug myself all day.
A funny thing happens when you record yourself speaking. The voice that comes back is not AT ALL like the voice you thought was going in. I felt like James Earl Jones in a Verizon commercial when I heard myself talking. I suddenly felt the need to belt out a rendition of “What a Wonderful World” because I had this deep raspy voice that could either be like $2.99/minute sexy, or “I have your child” creepy. It’s a thin line.
The second odd occurrence whenever I am on the treadmill is that I have this completely misconstrued image of what my body looks like. When no one is here I will rock a tank and some yoga pants like it is my job, as opposed to when people are home and I swim in an oversized t-shirt and sweats. When I am going on the treadmill, building up a good sweat, feeling positive and singing out loud, in my head I look like Jillian Michaels, but without the stubby man hands. Then every once in awhile, I catch a glimpse of my actual self in the reflection of the TV, and guess what? So NOT Jillian. More like the fat woman who ATE Jillian, spit her out, covered her in chocolate and ate her again. And then snacked on Bob. Maybe not so over the top, but definitely not like the image I pretend to be when no one is around.
Lastly, using the treadmill always ends in me mopping the kitchen floor. When I am on it I have a clear view of the wooden floor and the sunlight hits it just so and I can see every doggy paw print, scuff mark and footprint, and then my OCD kicks in and I have no choice. The only thing better would be a mop with a handle that extends so I can mop the floor and walk on the treadmill at the same time. Oh, and if I could actually look like Jillian Michaels when I am done, that would super fantabulous too. Please and thank you.
Yesterday, something truly wackadaisical happened when I was walking. Some crazy guy on the radio said that Ricky Martin came out of the sparkly gay closet and totally admitted he likes outties over innies and I thought OMG NO WAY and LOL, didn’t we all know that like 15 years ago? See, strange things happen when lost in the world of walking.
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