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.

Three Minute Matters

A fifteen minute walk outside my front door leads to a trailhead. The trailhead dumps out on to a wide dirt road where other trails offshoot. I like walking the road. I like the crunch, crunch, crunch under my feet. I like to watch the babies go off roading and return to me with their adventures dripping off their panting tongues, sticking in their fur, dirtying their paws. The babies and I have been walking this way for eight years.

It took me eight years to lose the basset.

The basset headed left, down a ravine; I headed right, towards the water. I wasn't worried. I knew she'd catch up. She always does.

I glanced behind me, waiting to see the tip of her white tail, listening for the jingle of her tags. Nothing. The mutt and I headed down the ravine, the last place I saw her. She wasn't there.

Weirdly, my wife texted me to see if I was okay. I told her I couldn't find the basset.

According to text time, I held my shit together for three minutes. In three minutes I transformed from a rational human being into Something Wasn't Right. Did she fall into a hole so dark and deep I'd never find her? Was her harness caught on a branch? Was she hurt? Bleeding? Was she snatched by a mountain lion? Did someone take her? Where did this someone come from?

My wife told me to go back to the place I lost her. I started walking back up the ravine when I heard barking. Frantic, nervous barking. As my head crested over the top of the ravine, there the basset sat, barking at me like I disappeared on her.

My wife knew all along the basset wasn't lost. I, on the other hand, lost everything in three minutes.

What's in a Name?

I told myself I would write a post every Monday. A fine idea until Monday rolls around and I need to find something interesting to say. What if I don't feel like being interesting? If my name was Paris Kardashian, my namesake would automatically make me interesting. I could be as dull as a butterknife yet Gawker would print my name thirty-seven times in one week. Snoop Dog would invite me to his barbecues.

And I'd go.

Not that securing invites to celebrity barbecues has ever been my aim. Although watching Jay Z throw Justin Bieber in the pool would be hilarious. And using the bathroom after Mariah Carey to find she doesn't wash her hands might be worth ten thousand dollars to TMZ.

Not that selling dirt on celebrities is my aim, either. Although ten thousand dollars grants a lot of my wishes. And once wishes are granted, doesn't it make it easier to kick open the immoral door to secretly take photos of Jennifer Aniston wearing nothing but her bikini bottoms--I imagine Snoop Dog's barbecues get intensely wild--for millions?

You bet it does.

If only I had a more interesting name.

Possibilities

We've discussed it many times, in crisp morning fog and under the sweltering afternoon sun; sitting in restaurants with white tablecloths and lounging on our battered leather sofa. I tell my wife to never discuss it with anyone but me: no one knows her like I do, they'll not understand. Does she want to be the woman in the room people whisper about? But she doesn't see it that way. When I claim it is scientifically impossible, she shrugs and says it is possible, her only proof originating from fictional books, popular television shows, and her dreams.

My wife mentions her elaborate escape plans, how we need to arm ourselves, how when it happens I'm to follow her blindly, at least once a week. Giving full decision making control to my wife makes me uneasy, but it will never happen so I agree. Sometimes it's easier to just let her get it out, uninterrupted, so we can move on to other things, like if we have enough money to get a new sofa, or how lesbians in movies seem to sleep with a lot of men.

I think about searching for a support group, a place where I can stand up and say, "Hi. My name is ____, and the love of my life, the heart inside my heart, thinks the zombie apocalypse is possible. I cannot convince her otherwise. What do I do?" Sympathetic faces will look back at me. Some will look at the floor, knowing all to well how if feels to try to reason with the unreasonable, finding it hard share another person's struggles when they have so many of their own. But some will look at me and nod, and in that instant I'll feel better, less like a melting iceberg housing a climate change naysayer.

Science better damn well prove me right because the thought of a bunch of brain-eating, blood-soaked, raggedy undead outside my door, groaning, clawing to get in, makes me want to piss my pants and swallow my tongue. Let's hope my wife has a plan for that. Just in case.

Make It So

You might have recently heard about a study linking long, painful bladder infections in women to the chicken they are eating. The infections are resistant to antibiotics, therefore, difficult to get rid of. Scientists think it has something to do with the antibiotics chickens are fed - the chickens and infected women share the same bacterial DNA - to keep them healthy while living in horrid conditions.

I'm not delving into studio apartment chicken living, I swear.

The chicken industry says it has nothing to do with chickens. Whew. That was a close call. Revelations out of the mouths of invested parties always sets my mind at ease. What do epidemiologists know about infections and their causes anyway? Jack shit, that's what. I'm relieved to know my women friends who eat chicken have been given a pass by the chicken industry to keep on clucking.

These scientists should be ashamed: unleashing confounded conspiracy theories, trying to make names for themselves. I, for one, will not stand for it a moment longer! Join me, please, in telling these bullies to leave the chicken industry alone! (Shout-out to Chris Crocker, ya'll.) The chicken industry isn't doing anything but trying to raise hundreds of thousands of chickens without losing a single one. Now, I'm no scientist, but I'll bet the farm this E. coli superbug is linked to premarital sex. 

Some of the eight million at-risk women are married? 

Oh, then, um, it's probably linked to...pigs? Right. That's already been done. Birds? Shut your face, chickens aren't birds. Are they? But that's been done before, too. Hmm...Well, I'm going to have to go with vegetables. Yeah, I know about the spinach and the lettuce and the tomatoes, but it's got to be something other than an industry that churns out 23 million chickens a day for consumption.

I've got it: walking barefoot! Good for the chicken industry and the shoe industry. And now that I've said it, like all the other nonscientific blow-hards with the ability to speak, I have made it so.

Unsolved Mysteries

Remember when it was considered rude and inconsiderate for men to discuss politics and money in front of women folk because our tiny lady brains couldn’t possibly comprehend checkbooks and voting? It wasn’t that long ago, really. So is it any wonder that a group of swinging dicks want to, once again, tell women what they can and cannot do, especially with their bodies?

All I can say is, Thank you, oh, thank you, cerebral masters. You have no idea how I've toiled: tampons or pads? May your guidance soon lead to this very issue. 

Our tiny lady brains don’t know dick about bodies, am I right, ladies? Especially our own! Why, just the other day, I had to ask a man to help me figure out why I was spotting between periods. He said it had something to do with not eating enough red meat.

Sound. Logical. Manly.  

And I dig that shit. 

So you can imagine my delight to find that men are starting, once again, to make decisions for me and my lady friends. Hard decisions about women’s access to contraception and a woman’s right to choose. Ovaries are so complicated! How have we ladies managed to handle our sexual lives, all on our own, up to this point? How have our tiny lady brains not exploded out our pretty lady faces?

Some mysteries are better left unsolved.

All I know is I sleep soundly now, knowing there’s a strong force of men out there looking out for my tiny lady brain. Now I can focus on the things that really matter. I’m just waiting for the men to tell my tiny lady brain what those things are.  

Tips and Tricks (for Modern Day Racists)

As someone who grew up in a racist household, I feel I'm in a unique position to help ease the Hunger Games' racist fans' suffering. I can only imagine how disappointing, how deceiving it must have felt to watch a movie made from the beloved book series and find--gasp!--all the "good roles" occupied by black people! Huddle up and take a knee. Since you can't whitewash your movies like you can your books, I have some tips and tricks so this doesn't happen again. Let's start with the obvious:

1. You don't have to be a racist.

Yep. It's true. You really don't. Perhaps if you correlate your feelings of superiority to shitting in your own mouth it will help? I realize visualization doesn't work for everyone, so if you fall into that category, think about it this way: When you announce what you're about to say is racist and say it anyway, you're a fucking asshole. Which brings me to my second tip:

2. You don't have to be a fucking asshole.

Seriously. The world already has Rick Santorum and he owns that MO. But seeing how you despise a number of the world's population, being a fucking asshole may not bother you. And that's okay. So let's try this: If you let the sun darken your lily white skin you can't hold prejudices towards people with dark skin.

3. Don't be a hypocrite.

You don't know what that word means? Never mind. Let's move to my fourth tip: 

4. Read more books. 

I don't mean the Bible. Get a library card, clear a Saturday, and, I know this will be hard, check out books that sound lame. Maybe start with To Kill A Mockingbird. You're thinking it sounds kind of cool? Wait, wait, wait. It's not about hunting. Which brings me to my fifth and final tip:

5. Always understand what you're getting into.

Unless you can be absolutely certain the world you're stepping into is a white one, don't leave the house.

I care about you. I really do. And I'm sorry to throw in a spoiler alert, but there are going to be people of color in the sequels. You might want to start thinking about implementing one or two of these tips and tricks so the subsequent movies won't be so difficult to watch. But if you can't get past the blackness, stick with tip number five. There's no shame in staying at home and watching Two and a Half Men.

Making Faces

Last night my wife leaned over me, her lips on the verge of kissing me goodnight, when her head suddenly changed direction and landed on my shoulder. As I considered being offended, her body started shaking from...crying? No, she was giggling. Uncontrollably. When she looked at me again--red faced and teary eyed--I made a face. She laughed even harder. She kept looking away and I kept making faces. (Such a simple thing, making faces.) It was the funniest thing we'd done all day.

We might need to get out more.

Oftentimes the simple things get me thinking. When my wife walked around the bed to turn out the lights, and the happiness of our life together surged in my chest, I couldn't help thinking how one day we're going to end. Not because one of us stops loving the other, but because one of us, if not both, will die.

I know how this sounds. Doomsday much? But seriously, sometimes I can't help picturing our wrinkled bodies spooning on our Craftmatic adjustable bed. I can't help seeing us moving towards each other--so much slower than in our youthful years!--but moving towards each other nonetheless. And I can't help feeling our wrinkled hands desperately holding on to each other as one of us is on the edge of expiring.

Whoa. I thought this was supposed to be some funny, sarcastic shit, not a reminder we're all going to die! I should have kept it to myself, huh? It's so goddamn depressing, right? Yeah, I know. Only I'm under no illusion that my moments of extreme happiness will spare me from experiencing extreme devastation.

With all that in mind, I still can't help smiling, for my life is full of love and random acts of silliness.

Such a simple thing, making faces.

Lazy Bastard

For the past fifteen days my butt has basically left the comfortable confines of my sofa for two reasons:

1. Peeing
2. Pooping

I drink a lot of water so I've gotten off the sofa more than one might think. Still, when I'm standing my butt feels weird, like it's lacking major support. When I'm standing, the sofa looks like something is missing. Something invaluable, irreplaceable. Something only I can offer.

I've allowed my butt and sofa to develop a deep, meaningful relationship.

Some might even call it love.

I like to pretend it happened separately from me, without my involvement or knowledge, but I cannot deceive myself so easily. I know I joyfully brought them together. Not once did I turn away when my butt gratefully sank into the comforting arms of the sofa. Never did I blush, scramble to find something else to do, when the sofa, ever so gently, lovingly, caressed my butt. No. I heralded their joining of forces. I encouraged it.

Tomorrow, I'll be a contemptible bastard. Butt and sofa will blame me for letting them spend so much time together only to tear them apart. I'll return to work; they'll return to being weekend lovers. I like to pretend it won't bother me, ripping two lovers apart so suddenly, but I know myself. It will hurt me, too. All I can give them is one unforgettable last day. A day I'll keep my liquid intake low.

Hail Mary

The clock strikes the two minute warning. Cameras pan to the Denver Broncos' sidelines. There, in his Jesus crouch, is Tim Tebow; eyes earnestly closed in prayer, lips moving.

In all fairness, I have no idea what Tebow is saying. He could be pleading for the return of our troops in Afghanistan, or for the violence in Syria to stop. But seeing how Denver is down by four points with two minutes to go, I'll bet my kingdom in Heaven he's not asking for anything outside himself. Praying for strength, or guts and glory so your football team can go to the playoffs makes you look like a douche, Tim. I don't care how much money you make; you're goals aren't that important. Jesus has a lot on his plate. There's no way your playoff hopes are even warming in His oven. 

Lean in, Tim. Let me tell you something. If you put half the effort into studying pictures of defenses, talking with the offensive coordinator, rallying receivers, patting the offensive line on the back than you do praying, maybe you'd have scored more than three points. Besides, where is the praying getting you? A soon to be nice spot on your season-ending sofa is where. Jesus doesn't belong to a fantasy league, Tim. He could care about your little game's outcome. But Satan? I hear he runs a fantasy league worth billions.

With all your look-at-me-sincerely-praying-even-though-I'm-not-stuck-on-a-roof-after-a-hurricane-or-in-a-burning-building, I like the idea that the Devil is fucking with you.