Graham and I have different schedules. It’s not unusual for him to be going to bed as I’m waking up to go to work. Even on the days when he’s off, he’s still on this bizarre night owl schedule for closing the restaurant and is in no mood to do the stuff I do (make dinner, load dishwasher, laundry, etc.) when I get off work. Still, though, I do get irritated sometimes when I come home after another shit day and see an empty soda can on the kitchen counter or a shoe graveyard under the coffee table. Like, really? This isn’t a big house. Putting stuff away takes nine steps maximum, is it that hard?

And other times, I come home to a fully assembled and functional treadmill in the basement, or perhaps a newly installed kitchen faucet that doesn’t leak all over the place, plus the grocery shopping has been done and there’s only one pair of shoes under the table, and all is forgiven. I told him that I never thought I’d be so happy to get off work and see a piece of exercise equipment in the house, but this treadmill is something I’ve wanted for a very long time. Thanks to Jake (who sold it), Nate (who helped moved it), and Graham (who moved it and put it together), now I have one! And there’s a surplus of televisions in this house, so I can watch Top Gun while I learn how to run again! Maybe I won’t need an inhaler this time! Take that, soccer!

Plus I wasn’t really excited about P90X. Stephanie’s doing it, but come on. I am not Stephanie. I mean, a) she’s getting married in a year and b) she can already run multiple miles in a row. So fuck her, right? Also, I believe Fiala when he says that P90X is more about upper body strength like pull ups, a prison-style exercise at which women do not typically excel. I know I’ve never been good at pull ups, not even when I was a size 6, knew how bench presses worked, and had the lung capacity of a goddamn dolphin. I did briefly think about Insanity to the point of telling someone she could come over to my house and drink while I made an ass out of myself, but a treadmill is more my speed. I like doing things on my own. I don’t want a sweaty egomaniac (who is not Iceman) yelling at me from the TV. I don’t want to follow someone else’s diet, number one because most diets don’t involve actual cooking and number two because I already eat pretty well. I want to be embarrassing in my own house on my own terms. I’m so excited about this thing that I have a new motto to go along with it:

NO TUMBLR TILL TREADMILL!

(Baaaaa daaa, da daaaaaa, or whatever goes through your head during “No Sleep Till Brooklyn”)

No more wasting hours on the Internet before I deal with the treadmill. Yes, that means I might fall a little behind and my queue will shrink and maybe I’ll miss more stuff, but fuck it. I mean business with this fatassery. I get off work early enough, I can fit in at least 400 burned calories before most people leave the office. And that’s in the beginning, before I get back to the point where I zone out and finally realize that I’ve been running long enough to make a weaker person’s heart explode. I know – and am 100% fine with because beer plus cheeseburgers equals boobs! – that I’ll never be that skinny again, but some of this bullshit has got to go. I refuse to turn 30 at this size.

This concludes my blogging about losing weight. Those people can be such assholes.