I found the best motivation for staying on a treadmill- impatient douchebags circling the fucking thing just WAITING for you to hop off so they can steal it. Fucking ARGH.
Seriously, is there NOTHING else in the entire fucking ROOM that you can do? You just HAVE to stand RIGHT FUCKING THERE and lift your puny little weight every three minutes or so to pretend you have a reason for staying? There is no other place for you to sit and watch TV than the gym? THERE’S A STEPPER IN THE BACK, ASS-FACE. A FULL RACK OF WEIGHTS. A *LOT* OF MATSPACE. LEARN HOW TO ADAPT, YOU SLACK-FACED MONKEY.
I see your running shoes. I know you want to use the treadmill. I know it’s the only reason you dragged your Nike-wearing ass down here in the first place. And I normally have horrendous amounts of guilt about taking up equipment, particularly the treadmill, if I even *think* anyone else might want it. In those cases, I will ask them if they want it and probably will limit my own run to about half an hour, tops. Even if I’m having a particularly bad day, as I was yesterday (seriously, the entire day was a waste of effort. My major accomplishment was buying groceries at three different stores and finding a box of popsicles which had actual fruit juice in them (which was entirely devoured two hours later). I will, with a huge amount of effort, dredge up the last wee speck of human decency hiding in my subconscious and ignore the fact that I *really* wanted to use the treadmill, and that I kind of got here first. I know there’s only one, and that it’s inhumanly fucking cold outside. Sometimes exercise brings out, if not the best, at least the somewhat nicer side of me.
Of course, sometimes it brings out unholy fucking evil and makes me want to choke people with exercise bands. Depends on the mood.
WHICH WILL NOT BE HELPED IF YOU STAND AROUND HUFFING AND WATCHING TV AND NOT EVEN PRETENDING YOU ARE DOING ANYTHING BUT WAITING ANGRILY FOR ME TO GIVE UP AND LEAVE. COMMON COURTESY, DOUCHE-HOLE. GO DRINK SOME GATORADE AND LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE.
So instead of doing half an hour, I did an hour and ten minutes out of sheer spite. My lungs started shrivelling up around 40 minutes, and I’d been feeling like a bag of poop before I’d even gotten to the gym (and bags of poop generally aren’t very efficient runners), so I wasn’t planning on anything epic. I’d been giving it a bit of a rest for the last half-week or so as a kind of thank-you to my joints for holding up so well so far (also so they don’t give out completely anytime soon), so I wasn’t really going to run the entire time- I even brought my laptop along to do one of those “Insanity” workouts in the back half of the room. But then I realized how much Douche-Monkey wanted the treadmill, and how rude he was being about it. From then on, it was kind of a game- like, “Let’s see how long you’re going to stalk around getting pissed off before you snap.”
For the record, that game is HEAPS of fun, no matter how tired you are.
After an hour and ten minutes, I felt like I’d given it enough of an effort. I’d run through most of my rage at that point, and was just feeling bad for him. I’d definitely ruined his workout- there was less than half an hour left before the gym closed, at best, and I’d stolen the remote for the TV and left it playing “Jersey Shore” right in front of his face. I figured there wasn’t much else I could do to him. Of course, as soon as I hopped off he jumped straight on. It took him about five minutes of standing around looking annoyed and caveman-dumb jabbing at the buttons before he figured out how to start it.
So my workout went well- I pissed off a monkey, got in an awesome run, and watched the first half-hour of Jersey Shore (which is hella entertaining no matter how much it makes me want to throttle the people on it through the TV screen). I’m calling that a win.
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