Of a reckoning with my ways

Luka is unimpressed with the contraption pieces taking up space in her office. Wait til it starts rolling next week, sister!

After writing about my life for a few years, I’ve noticed some recurring themes.

These include:

• I am not effortlessly graceful. I fall often.  

• I tend to be penny-wise but pound-foolish.

• I often have over-ambitious notions about my abilities, mentally and physically.

• I don’t always consider the ramifications of my actions.

• Finally, I can sometimes resemble the dumb blonde stereotype.

This all came to mind yesterday as I watched three large men carry my latest online purchase down the driveway and leave it by the front door.

You see, earlier this week, in my quest to beat back the indignities of age, I purchased a treadmill. Some readers might remember my previous fitness-related online purchases, including two jump ropes (Who thought this was a good idea, universe?) and a TRX (Total Resistance Exercise) system. Both incredibly ill-advised purchases, based upon critical reviews from my lower lumbar region.

Yesterday, after the delivery drivers left a box larger than my college studio apartment on the patio, the laundry list of my faults came rushing back and I had to figure out how to get more than 300 pounds of NordicTrack machinery inside Casa de Weed.

If only I had paid the $200 delivery/assembly fee offered at the time of purchase, I could be sweating on the treadmill today rather than writing this post.  

So, by saving $200 earlier this week, I spent most of yesterday afternoon carrying the somewhat manageable pieces of the treadmill into the house and up the stairs. By the time I was done with that, my FitBit was buzzing with joy and my back was screaming, “For the love of James Comey, STOP!!”

Today, there is Advil on board and my back is mostly playing ball. However, there remains a large treadmill belt/motor housing downstairs that The Weed and I tried to move yesterday. His response: “Nope.”

So, this Wednesday, a treadmill assembly specialist (I’m not sure how one becomes a treadmill assembly specialist but I’m bigly glad they exist.) will visit, carry the heavy-ass part upstairs, and put the whole thing together for the completely worth it price of, you guessed it, $200.

The treadmill assembly specialist will not, however, take away the box larger than my college studio apartment and I still haven’t figured out what to do with that. Note: I’m accepting all suggestions about what to do with the box. I’ve considered recycling it piece by piece and fire.

Hopefully, by next week, my vision of total treadmill physical fitness will come to fruition and I can continue coming to terms with my ways.