Punxatawney Phil saw his shadow and so, at least in these parts, that means six more weeks of winter. Not that the weather (snow, ice, and barely double-digit temperatures) would let us forget it.
Six months ago I lugged my treadmill up from the basement to the bedroom to make the hellish implement more enticing, and to motivate myself to get back on track from a broken toe over a year ago. I figured if I saw it, I would use it, and as fall waned into winter, simply not having to go out in the snow and ice would be enough to get me going. But then holidays impended, and wrapping paper, gifts, and clean laundry found their way onto any flat (or slightly inclined) surface in the one room company never sees. The one small workout towel hung over the handrail attracted others, then artwork from the redecorated bathroom, then a box of books, then more laundry. The monstrosity grew like something out of Close Encounters (sans the mashed potatoes), until any inkling of stepping near, let alone running, walking, even standing, on the treadmill was just a dream. So now, in order to use it, I need to dig it out, which means taking back the bedroom. Not a bad thing, and long overdue, but a weekend project all the same. I have to do this. I will do this. I can’t wait any longer. I cannot let my fitness goals lapse another day. Tomorrow is a work day, but Saturday, dervishing, digging, and discardia will ensue. And first steps on the moving rubber mat will commence and, hopefully, continue. I will do this. I must. I will.