There’s nothing worse than a cold, rainy Memorial Day weekend.
Scratch that—there’s nothing worse than running on a treadmill on a cold, rainy Memorial Day weekend.
Wait, it gets worse—there’s nothing worse than being stuck next to an old guy with bad breath while running on a treadmill on a cold, rainy Memorial Day weekend.
You know what I’m talking about. We’ve all been there at one time or another. But just in case you’ve somehow avoided this treadmill rite of passage, take a moment to imagine yourself in the following scenario:
You’ve just passed the halfway mark on a grueling five-mile pace-progression run.
Your breathing is growing increasingly labored as you struggle to convince yourself that hey, it isn’t so bad. At least you pretty much have the joint to yourself, since everyone else is out trying to light their barbecues in the rain.
But then…dun, dun, duuunnnnnn…in walks the old dude with the most severe case of halitosis known to man. He has his pick of machines. He could literally have his own row if he so desired. But guess which one he chooses? Oh yeah, that’s right: the one directly to your left.
To make matters worse, he is positioned approximately halfway between you and the wall fan you have cranked up to maximum speed, so whatever disgusting odor comes out of his face is blown directly into yours.
You are flooded with feelings of utter frustration and helplessness as you think, “Dear Lord, why me?”
You wince as he repetitively presses the “speed up” button, finally settling on a rate of 4 mph—a blistering pace for a 65-year-old in jeans with an elastic waistband.
It’s only a matter of time before he’s sucking air—and then blowing it back out, infused with an odor that can only be described as a mixture of coffee, taco seasoning and moth balls.
And so, on that fateful Memorial Day weekend, as I desperately tried to invent a new breathing pattern that did not involve the use of my nose (an attempt which, by the way, failed miserably), the old wheels started a-turnin’ and the old light bulb started a-blinkin’. I had an idea.
More on my stroke of brilliance in my next post. Sorry, I know the suspense is killing you, but you’ll just have to wait.
This post is exactly what happens to me on every flight I ever take, ever. I'm sitting there, happy in my aisle seat with an empty middle seat next to me. About two minutes before they close the plane doors, someone (usually an overweight someone, or a frazzled someone with a baby) will walk in and head right for the seat next to me. There can be whole empty rows on the plane, but they will insist on sitting in their assigned seat, next to me. Ugh.
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