THE TREADMILL DIARIES

Okay. I am starting to think my legs, feet, and ankles have grown weary of carrying me around all these…um, 28 years. Watch yourself. I’m sticking with 28. I agree with you that is way too soon for body parts to start aching and complaining and giving up on life, but my right ankle seems to have missed this memo. Before I tell you what happened, let me describe exactly which part of the ankle I am referring to. You know where your ankle is, on the outside of your foot? Where a lot of females, including yours truly got tattooed in the 90s? That’s not it. I’m talking about the part of your ankle on the inside of your foot…the forgotten inner ankle joint area diagonally above that indention over your heel. Yeah. There. Mine decided to abandon me.      Here’s what happened. I’ve been running on the treadmill for approximately three weeks now. I used to do the elliptical machine (I was crazy with it!), water aerobics, and speed walk on the treadmill. I started runni...

The gang and I returned to the gym because I am trying very hard to develop a daily maintenance routine to defend myself against the flab of our fathers, or rather mothers in most women’s cases. Like you never looked into a mirror and sadly recognized some aspect of your mother’s body looking back at you saying “hey girl! It’s my turn now! Hope you enjoyed your twenties!”? Don’t feel badly, your mother went through the same thing. But I adamantly informed my mother, as she laughed and unsympathetically reassured me that I was getting older and looked fine to her, and promised my body I would fight the transformation with every ounce of my strength right down to the last breath. I would put on boxing gloves and demolish those blubber demons that sought me out and jumped on my belly and behind if I even so much as looked in the direction of a Godiva Chocolatier or smelled fried chicken or burgers and fries. I would go out fighting like a champion. I declared that when they found my corps...

          It was a wet and foggy day in New York City. The buildings of the city looked as if they were floating in soft pillows of see-through cotton, and the sky was crying silently as if longing for the love of Summer, who left without so much as a token of her love for the moody city with insomnia. Due to repetitive and foreseen circumstances, I was forced to don my faithful black dress, the one I weighed-in in week after week at my Overeaters Are Not Anonymous Because We Are Fat sessions. Although, I love the dress, I knew better when wearing her to toil in the office because she is sexy and she knows it. To tame her, I always made sure to slip on a matching, simple black camisole underneath to cover and protect the twins from the evil red headed wench who enforces her front desk “no cleavage” rules with a glare from two beady blue eyeballs that make you feel like you’ve just been pimp slapped in front of a million Baptists for sinning. ...

The Treadmill Diaries are a compilation of short stories depicting my, and my body parts, adventures to the gym as we attempt to become a leading example of an over 30 female Adonis. How far over 30 is absolutely none of your business and will soon be irrelevant if we have our way with the treadmill. There are quite a few obstacles, including my body parts, the other patrons, and the darned treadmill himself as he fights us every day as hard as he can. Still we persevere. We will win. We will defy age and make all the little 18 year olds and 20 somethings so jealous that they don't have the body AND the knowledge that only comes with experience (experience, age, wisdom...same difference). Who needs plastic surgery when you've got access to a treadmill?  Heh heh heh.