Beth is in the best shape of her life. At 31, she's as skinny as she was at 14. None of the clothes she bought in her 20s even fit. In the meantime, while I'm not in the worst shape of my life, I'm only a hop, skip, and a jump . . . okay, a beer, some sitcoms, and a burrito . . . away from it.
How, pray tell, is my beautiful wife in such wicked awesome shape (to quote Liz Turillo), while I melt away?
On the one hand, Beth rides her bike everyday during the summer. During the winter she swims up to 4,000 yards 3 times a week. In fact, she's at a swimmeet right now. Throughout the rest of the year, she gets on either a treadmill or one of those scary elliptical things.
I, on the other hand, have worked somewhat crazy hours these past few years and . . . well, that's my only excuse. However, at my new job, I work only 40 hours a week. Awesome, you say? I guess it is. That is, of course, unless you're trying to avoid working out.
My excuse in the shitter, I bought a membership to Loyola's gym and jumped on a treadmill.
Pop culture has made treadmills look fun (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pv5zWaTEVkI), cute (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yVjzd320gew&NR=1), or just plain wacky (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3KCjIAhSPc&feature=related). Yet treadmils are, I assure you, none of these things. They are indoor deathtraps, waiting to swallow you whole.
I can't grumble too much. So far, I've just walked on one for 30 minutes at a time, never quite reaching a jog. But I see the dark, endless, mechanical road ahead. I know what sad cardio fate awaits yours truly. Good Lord, save my sorry lungs!