I hate maintenance. This is in defiance to everything my father faithfully tried to instill in me. I want the dishes to morph into the dishwasher, the oil to change itself, and the lawn to live, but not grow. So you can imagine how thrilled I was to get a reminder in the mail that I had an appointment with a treadmill, about 11 electrodes, and a sadistic nurse with a razor and sandpaper. “Stress EKG.” Ha! I don’ need no stinkin’ treadmill to tell me I got stress.
It’s not about the treadmill, mind you. I get on one about five times a year, whether I need to or not. It’s about getting on the treadmill at the doctor’s office when I haven’t been on one at the gym in a while. I needed some time to work out before the exam so the exam wouldn’t make me look like I hadn’t been working out. Sort of like cleaning the house before the house cleaner comes.
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