I fell off the treadmill this morning. I'm serious, it's not a metaphor. I actually fell off the treadmill. (I'm pretty sure the word "pathetic" is embarrassed to admit himself as my acquaintance right about now).
There I was, finishing up my 20 minutes of exercise with a nice, steady walk, weights in hand, when I decided to close my eyes and say a little prayer before I began my day. This is what I learned:
Just kidding. I think prayer is an integral part of exercise, especially in my case ("Please let this be over soon...") and I think God was listening to me. I also think He had to stifle a chuckle when I hurtled off the treadmill and slammed into the wall.
But, I'm proud to say I stood up and got back on, in spite of my bruised ankle... and ego.
When I finished my workout (is that a legitimate word to use when a snail could outpace me?) I walked upstairs to stretch and shower. David met me at the bathroom door and asked, "What was that noise downstairs?"
Ha ha. Nothing, nothing. Just my dignity getting beat up by a treadmill. (Boy, if Pathetic thought we were friends before, I guess now we're like BFFs).
But I did manage to run for five-minute stretches instead of three-minute. Well, jog. Okay, okay, walk-at-an-almost-jog.
Gah. Come on, Pathetic. Let's go eat some ice cream.