I’m blaming the Treat Truck for Thursday’s embarrassment. Yesterday afternoon at approximately 4:00pm EST somebody came into the office with a box of goodies from the Treat Truck (www.treatstruck.com). The treats were oh-so casually left open on the credenza by my desk and took a whooping fifteen minutes for someone to dive in (and no it wasn’t me. I was the third). Suddenly lots of sharing was going on as my sweets-loving coworkers and I sampled every treat in the box.
By the time I leave the office I’m soaring on a sugar high. Thinking I should put some of this energy to use I head to the gym.
Yes! There is an open elliptical and it’s not by the smelly dude! I bee-line it over and hit ‘Start’ – ‘Hill Program’ – ‘iPod Play.’ They machine defaults to a 60 minute program but 30 minutes should do it. With all the refine white sugar pulsing though my veins and Lil’ John and the East Side Boys pumping in my ears, the first 30 minutes are over before I realize it. Feeling still pretty good I continue.
Thirty minutes and twelve Kelly Clarkson songs later, the calorie counter is telling me I’ve burned a total 652 calories (my usual opinion on the calorie counter is that it is completely false, but in this case I’ll take it as the word of god). I dismount the machine and realize my legs are a tad wobbly. In effort to gain my balance I hop on the treadmill to walk it out. As I walk my legs are springing back like rubber bands, then I have the crazy thought that I should kick it up to a jog to help stretch out.
Stretched out or not a mile later, I call it quits. I grab my stuff and hit the subway. Never have I looked so forward to a subway ride. I’m not sure why I decided to work out ‘Biggest Loser’ style today but remind me never to do that again.
“Next Stop 2nd Ave,” the conductor announces.
Gathering my belongings I shake my wilted legs. Ok, it’s time to stand – easy does it. I management to make it up the first set of stairs but half way up the second set - Ouch! I get the worse Charlie-horse cramp in the world! For a moment I’m paralyzed. Breath…Breath...Breath… Folks behind me are getting frustrated, I’m blocking the steps, I gotta move. One step…two step….the handrail that feels like it has been coated in bologna slime has become my new best friend.
The top of the stairs brings some relief and I quickly eye up the closest park bench. I join the one-toothed homeless guy on the bench and try and get myself together. It took a few minutes but I eventually hobbled home, passing two very unattractive drag queens. There was only one thing left standing between me and my bed…the stairs. I made it up the first two flights then needed rest and stretch it out a bit. Pulling together what strength I had left I got myself up the remaining 23 steps.
Getting out of bed this morning was a little rough. I gingerly got myself together for work. I may not be very religious but from the moment I stepped out the door I was praying the subway escalators worked. Thinking the risk of having to climb all 249 stairs at the 63rd street stoop was too great; I raised my arm and yelled ‘Taxi!’