I was hitting 2024 with an all-new resolve. I’m not doing a dry January though, that’s just crazy talk. But I did want to get back into a healthy exercise routine, so a trip to the gym was in order. 

Let’s review. I couldn’t wear the old sweats I’d worn for months. After a quick trip to Lululemon and new gym shoes, I found my earphones and loaded up audiobooks, and I was ready. I confess earbuds fall out of my ears. 

“I’m back,” I cheerfully said to the desk clerk. 

“Welcome back,” he said, underwhelmed. He held up the scanner and looked at me with beckoning eyes. I returned the stare. “Your app?” he asked.

I replied, “Do you want my phone number?” 

Where do I begin? I saw row after row of stationary bikes, followed by rows of treadmills. Standing alone, I was getting jostled by the more dedicated enthusiasts. 

The treadmill seemed the least intimidating. I can walk, walk fast, and even run in place. Looking at the control panel in front of me, I felt like I needed a rocket scientist to help me get it started. I pressed the large green button, and the tread beneath my feet suddenly moved like an airport people mover. Quickly, I found myself on a fast-paced walk. I plugged one end of my earphones into my phone, the other into me, and started my motivational audiobook.

With my confidence rising, I gained more speed. I was going at a pretty good clip and repurposed gym air filled my lungs. I could go faster; why not? I glanced at my reflection in the windows. I looked cute. I was in the front row of machines, with throngs of people behind me. 

I reached across to adjust the volume on my phone. All the thumping of my new heavy running shoes on this oversized rubber band made it difficult to hear. 

“AAAHHH!” My arm caught the earphone cord, sending my phone flying while still attached to my ears. I lunged to catch it, but the phone banged against the side of the machine until breaking loose and landing in the walkway. Where were all those fanatics now that I needed them to hand my phone back to me?

How do I stop this thing? Using what little upper body strength I have, I hoisted myself up on the hand bars, releasing my feet in the hopes it would stop. That was a bad idea. When I lowered myself back down, I caught my rubbered-toed shoes on the running rubber band.

I flipped and went flying. My butt landed on the tread, with my feet planted on the tile floor. I looked like an inverted beetle. Thud. Thud. Thud. Back-pedaling, I tried to right myself by placing my palms on the fast-moving treadmill. All that managed to do was catapult all of me onto the tile floor. I hoped no one was watching this Lululemon-clad mother of three spread eagle on the dirty tile floor that was covered in sweat and other bodily fluids, and doused with Pine Sol like a bad perfume.

I slid over and grabbed my phone, hopped to my feet in an I-meant-to-do-that motion, turned, mounted the machine, and resumed at the full running pace as if nothing had happened. 

When the workout cycle ended, this hamster-on-a-wheel dismounted. Tomorrow, I’ll return to my sweats and neighborhood streets resolving to do a less aggressive routine.

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