I Prefer Liposuction, Thank You Very Much

Before I begin my barrage of thoughts, I'd like to make a comment on comments. Maybe some of you don't know this. Maybe some of you do. My last post elicited 5 phone calls, all with the caller laughing heartily and choking out words like, "cake" and "icing" and "can't breathe" as I said hello. Maybe you are all like me and don't like to laugh alone. I understand. But what I need you to understand is this. The comment section of a blogger's blog is like the inside of a yearbook cover for a 7th grader on the last day of school. An empty one is not acceptable. And she feels dejected and lame and oh-so unpopular. But that doesn't happen. A 7th grader doesn't put herself in that situation and she will walk up to perfect strangers to get those "Hey, I didn't know you well, but I saw you sometimes in Civics and you seem cool" or "Stay sweet, have a great summer, see you next year, lylas!" Well, I draw the line, as a 30 year old woman who is mostly comfortable in her own skin, I'm not gonna crawl. But leave comments for pete's sake. And to make my point clear, from now on I will only be accepting phone calls from comment leavers.

Onward.

My title is what I have been thinking for the last hour or so. I went to the gym with Ben. I took him because I want to instill in him the deep and abiding love that I have for all things exercisely. What I instead gave him was my newly acquired, deep and abiding fear of treadmills. I FELL OFF THE TREADMILL. I really fell off. I didn't stumble, miss a step, catch myself, no sireebob, I fell off. I guess more fittingly, I fell ON it, and it quickly spit me off. Not nearly quickly enough for my wounded pride and bruised....well, this is a family-friendly blog.

It really hurt, and even though I was alone, my eyes of course darted around the room to hastily ascertain who else had seen my unsightly flailing off the 'mill. Only my son. And that will be embarrassing in time. It will undoubtedly come back to haunt me, like letting him pee in the woods and taking him to my 9 month pregnant doctor's examine has. "Treadmiwl? Treadmiwl? My mommy got sucko-punched by one yestowday---I saw four limbs go in 7 diffowent diwections!" I felt some consolation as I scraped my body off the floor and my upper thigh from the tread of the mill as I realized I had just created a blog topic. To make me seem tough in this blog, I got back on the treadmill and finished my "workout". Amidst my racing heart (not yet from the workout, for fear of the blasted machine), and Ben's queries, "Why did you falled mom? Why did you dood that? Why did your mouff go on that black thing, that's (d')susting mom, we don't do that..."

I spent the rest of my workout studying the treadmill trying to figure out how I fell as I did. I didn't figure it out. I didn't make it up. And if this wasn't a family-friendly blog, and if I didn't have some decency, I'd post a picture to prove it. I'm really not a clumsy person either---I have no explanation. When Jay gets home, I'm gonna ask him if we can return this nifty heart rate monitor he just got, and just put the money toward my lipo fund. There has GOT to be a better way.