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).