The Dreadmill Truly is the Root of All Evil

It’s like a T. rex: if I don’t move he won’t be able to see me. Keep very, very still. You don’t need to breathe, really you don’t. You’re evolved beyond that function.

It’s going to be fine, you’ll get through this. You’re too young to die like this!

“Cecelia?”

HOW DID HE SEE ME?! I’m as still as a squirrel in the middle of rush hour!

“You okay?”

I am currently accepting applications for a full-time social babysitter.

Great benefits…

No dental but I’ll share my pumpkin baked goods.

I might throw in a pair of seasonal socks. Because who doesn’t love fun socks?

My future is changing directions and you know what I see?

Cats, Scrabble and Golden Girls re-runs.

I thought that I was getting better at interacting with members of the opposite sex. And I am. Sort of. Well, I can carry on a conversation without falling flat on my face and busting open my knees and elbows in the middle of a 6-mile run (yep it happened. I needed 10 stitches. My nerves live in another realm of social awkwardness) and no longer have the urge to pretend I'm lost from a foreign tour group when a guy looks at me. But hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day.

And as of right now, I’ve built ¼ of a sidewalk.

But it’s a pretty sidewalk.

There’s mosaic.

Due to a dead headlamp, 30-degree temperatures, pouring rain and total darkness, I was driven into the gym the other night for my run.

NO! DON’T MAKE ME! NOT THE HAMSTER HELL!

I loathe running on a treadmill (dreadmill, wheel of doom,) and have not had to resort to that option since June. I’m that crazy girl who runs in the pouring down rain, 105-degree heat and absolute pitch-black night. But alas, winter is a whole other ball of wax. Cold and Cecelia do not mix. (We are like Diet Coke and Mentos) Where I live is also right on a river and we live in an epicenter of paradoxical weather. It can be raining one moment, sunny the next and an hour later it will be snowing. Our weathermen have the best jobs because realistically they can say whatever they like and no one can fault them because our weather is so fickle (I predict it will rain kittens tomorrow).

This weather, while amazing for cute scarves, head wraps and coats, is deplorable for outdoor running.

So I put on my iPod, and unwilliningly jumped on my treadmill for an 8-mile tempo run.

Hey, it’s not as bad as you thought. See you were being silly. This is flying buy, you must be at least halfway finished; maybe I’ll go for 10 miles today.

Mileage: .25mile

KILL ME!!!!!

Eight tedious, agonizing and miserably boring miles later, I leapt off and immediately and exasperatedly shouted “Hamster hell! Never again!”  I was unaware that there was someone standing right in front of me (exhaustive exercise induced blindness) and even more oblivious to the fact that he was trying to talk to me. A former gym rat, I knew everyone of the trainers who worked in my health club on a first-name basis and by favorite exercise. However, since becoming so serious about running, I haven’t been in the gym in months.

“I’ve missed seeing you around, it’s so serious in here now,” he said. “You look amazing by the way. Have you changed up your workout, your muscle tone is phenomenal.”

If I had a patronus, it’d be a squirrel. I stood there, wide-eyed and frozen unsure of what to say or do. 

Just jump back on the treadmill, he can’t talk to you if you are in motion.

Thirty seconds of uncomfortable nervous laughter was followed by “Yeah, I stopped Spinning because it made my legs look fat.”

Smooth, right? I ran back to my machine to wipe it down and had plans of making a break for it through the Stairmasters when I heard footsteps behind me.

“You do the minimal running thing right?” he said.  “I’m trying to transition for my next marathon. Do you think I could pick your brain about it? I’m doing a trail run this weekend if you want to join me. I promise I’ll keep you from falling off a cliff or something.”

OH MY GOSH. Don’t scream at him, don’t throw up and don’t run away.

Say something.

Anything.

Use your words!

I squeaked out, “it’s OK, I come with a waiver.”

If you don’t hear from me after Saturday, it’s because I’ve died of first-date awkwardness…or I’ve fallen into a ditch.

Send help.

And tacky socks.