Tales from the Treadmill

It's that time of year again. The time of year that when the alarm clock sounds it is can't-see-shit dark outside. My wife and I fumble in pitch black when making the bed, misjudge and kiss chins and earlobes, trip over babies on the way to the light switch. The overhead bedroom light is too hostile that early in the morning, so we turn on the stairwell light. Once there's a light source, we go our separate ways. One of us heads upstairs with the babies, the other stays put to run on the treadmill. I go upstairs, turn off the light behind me.

I'm upstairs, in the loft. The babies are settling as I'm rounding out my first set of weights. I can hear the belt of the treadmill whirling, my wife's feet pad, pad, padding along. Suddenly, the belt is whirling alone. I'm not all that concerned. She steps off sometimes to do whatever it is she does. So I continue to focus on the weights in my hand, lifting them up and down, working my biceps.

Metal, falling to the ground. A dull thud followed by several other dull thuds. Unaccounted for sounds scream up to me from downstairs.

"Honey?" She doesn't answer. Oh god. My feet stutter down the steep loft steps as fast as they will go, dodge tail wagging babies through the living room, and take the more leveled set of steps down into the basement more quickly.

I'm in the bedroom. The treadmill belt is still whirling. My wife, however, is gone. As I make my way around the bed, I see the top of her head, then her body. She starts to stand. Her running tights, on one side, expose half her butt. The other side of her running tights are covered in dog hair.

"Are you all right?! What happened?" I say.

She's running in the dark. Decides it's too dark. (No shit.) Steps off the treadmill to turn on the bathroom light. Going from darkness to light, she's blinded. She means to step onto the side of the treadmill and instead steps onto the belt...which is moving 6.2 miles per hour.

It's mayhem from there.

As her foot sweeps out from under her, she has just enough time to grab onto the treadmill's side handle. So, she's lying there, on the treadmill, right? The belt is slowly pulling down her pants, taking some skin with it, as she takes her time deciding the best course of action. Don't call out to your wife to come turn the treadmill off. That's ridiculous. Instead, decide the best option is to let go, fly off the end, and let the belt's propulsion throw your body into the bed. Yeah, do that. And that's what she does; hence, one side of her running tights being covered in dog hair.

Running is dangerous business. Treadmills are no joke. But, I swear to Christ, I'm still laughing.