stairway to hell

Yesterday was a big day. I am an avid exerciser. Well…honestly I just want to be fit, look good in a dress and be able to drink beer and eat cheese. But I say whatever gets us to the gym.

My nemesis: the stair climber machine. The one where the stairs sorta roll out of the base and you just walk.up.stairs. Basically until you want to die. About six months ago a good friend of mine- I call him the terminator- discovered this contraption/torture device and we started a bit of a friendly competition. Let me explain that I have nicknamed him “terminator” for a few reasons one of which is the fact that he is uber fit.

We start. 100, 125, 137… each time thinking there is NO possible way I could ever do more. Β One night he texts me a picture of the stair climber machine screen- 237! How can this be?! Then and there I resolved to beat Mr. Fit.

I printed out the email. Posted it on my fridge. That number was burned into my brain. Β I shared my slow, painful, tortoise like increases with friends and family who cheered me on.

Then finally it happened. I entered the gym. Made my slow way over to the stair climber machine. It loomed large. I felt a little sick. Ugh, this was SO hard. Like a form of torture, but one that is chosen by me.

Resigned to my chosen fate, I marched up the stairs and started. Mind tricks, music, motivational thoughts… prayers. I passed my 45 minute timer…I slowed a bit and realized that I was really close to my goal. I could make it. Three more songs: The Gambler, Callin’ Baton Rouge, and Buttons by the Pussycat Dolls. Ta Da. 241 the counter read as I held on and managed to not pass out, sweat dripping down from my arms in gallons. Literally. Another very non sexy look of the day.

I texted a few friends. Walked over to do some situps with a little smile on my face, and full of pride. I had slayed the Stair Climber Demon. Little me.

You can bet I won’t be doing that again…