I have a secret to tell. At the gym, I’m lazy getting off the treadmill. “Gasp,” you say sarcastically. Well, here me out. It really is a naughty habit.
Rather than letting the treadmill slow to a stop and stepping off like a normal person, I live life on the edge. Actually on the edge. With the treadmill still running, I hop off to plant my feet on either side and then stop the machine. Stupid, I know, but I have landed that jump thousands of times over many years. Never a problem… until today.
Jumping to the sides, one of my big ‘ol feet missed its mark. I made a racket as my feet thumped hard, my body scrambled, and my arms thankfully landed on the side rails. I had survived, barely. A split second delay and I would have been thrown twenty feet back into an unsuspecting elliptical machine, with a broken nose and no good excuse. Thud goes the dumbo.
As it was, the other folks at the gym glanced my way in unison, gave a look that said “fool,” and resumed sweating. I was alive, I was still a member in good standing at the gym, and most importantly, I was not moaning a sad song of regret at the ER. Regret for being Mr. Lazy Treadmill Dismounter (soon to be reformed, albeit one misplaced step too late).