Machine: 1, Me: Zip

Some weeks ago, I was at the local fitness establishment (my first mistake) and wanted to try something a little different than my usual routine (my second mistake). I was with my mother, my hardcore workout buddy, whom around the house is affectionately referred to as Arnold (as in Terminator). She suggested jogging on a treadmill, as opposed to the putzing around on the elliptical. Ok, sounds innocent enough.

Never again.

For those of you who don't know me, I don't exactly have the build of a long distance runner. Picture a barrell on a couple 2x4's with a slightly fatter ass. That's me. So why I thought I could actually spend any significant amount of time on a machine/torture device that is made for this purpose is completely beyond my scope of understanding. Again, for those of you that don't know me, I should also mention that I trip on air. My feet, I am convinced, are not in any way wired into my nervous system. Any movement is nothing more than a mere spasm and a complete fluke.

Combine the above information with a continuous-running rubber sheet and see where that gets a person.

I did fine for the first half-mile. I was clipping along at a good pace and starting to believe maybe I could actually do this. Looking back, this is probably the cause of all events that were to transpire in the upcoming minutes. It's difficult to admit, but I got cocky. Never, ever get cocky on a treadmill because this is what will happen:

You will trip. And you will fall. And you will hang on to the handrails with your feet dragging /bouncing behind you in a piss-poor resemblence of Superman for approximately 10 seconds. At this point, while splayed out quasi-horizontally, I took the opportunity to gaze at my mother on the treadmill beside me. Her face was almost enough to make up for the humiliation. Almost. She mouthed "Are you OK?" (since my headphones had miraculously remained in my ears at this point). I nodded a solemn yes, all the while trying in any way, shape or form to pull myself back into a running position. I had already lost every ounce of my pride, I wasn't about to fall off the back of the damn thing, too.

Amid my mom's not-so-subtle giggles (once she discovered I was OK) I managed to summon enough upper-body strength to get the situation undercontrol. I was back in an upright position and managed to slow the possessed machine to a stop. I calmly stripped the headphones off, gathered my iPod and stepped off the treadmill. I looked down to avoid the eyes of all other fitness buffs. This is when I became conscious of the fact that shoes, no matter how durable the advertisers claim they are, get holes when subjected to an intense friction.

In reflection, I think I did the witnesses of this mishap a favor. They can now go about their workouts knowing that they will never look as absolutely stupid/hilarious/pathetic as the girl who got beat by a treadmill.