“Oh, not this shit again,” my asshole brain whined as I approached the treadmill.
“You know the drill,” said my inner masochist. “My time to shine.”
I stepped fatly onto the machine and busied myself with my earbuds, curious as to how this would all shake out.
“We’ve already been through this. It sucked.” Asshole had a point.
“Yeah, and we lost seventy pounds.” Oh snap.
“And then we gained it all back. Plus some. Why bother?” I imagined the Taco Bell down the street. Time for anything supreme.
“Welp,” said the masochist, “you snore. Because you’re fat.” Sigh. True that.
“I’m not fat. It’s this bag of Nachos Bellagrande masquerading as a person who’s fat. He’s our Uber.”
I start the C25K app on my phone. Day one, run one. Take that, asshole brain.
“See? The Uber knows where it’s at,” said my masochist. Damnit.
“Begin brisk 5 minute warm-up walk,” said the too-chipper voice of the app. She sounds foxy, but Mormon foxy.
“Ok,” said masochist brain.
“SHUT UP YOU HARPY,” yelled asshole brain.
I started to walk as the treadmill spun up to 3 MPH.
“Goddamnit,” said the asshole brain.
“Just 3?” asked the masochist.
Two minutes in, and I started to sweat a bit.
“Ew,” said the asshole.
“Yeah, that sucks,” said the masochist, “use your towel.”
I used my towel.
As I dabbed at my glistening brow, asshole brain began a chant in time with my steps.
“Fuck. You. Fuck. You. Fuck. You.”
“Begin running for one minute,” said the foxy Mormon.
“Nope!” said asshole brain.
“BRING IT!” shouted the masochist.
As my steps increased in rate to a slow, fat 6 MPH, the chant increased with it.
“fuck. you. Fuckyou. fuckyou. fuckyoufuckyofuckyoufuckyou”
It was getting harder to pass the sweat off as glistening.
“FINALLY. ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL US?” moaned asshole brain.
“Yeah, prolly ok to take a break,” agreed masochist brain.
I slowed my pace back to 3.
“You have completed run one of eight,” purred the Mormon.
“OHHHHHH no,” said the asshole brain. “TAXI!”
“Breathe through it,” said the masochist.
I imagined that the foxy Mormon looked like the women in the gym: tight leggings and sports bras over Yoga bodies, but she also was a bit judgy.
“How are you the only person in this whole goddamned gym sweating, fatso?” inquired asshole brain.
He had a point. The middle-aged dude next to me had just set his treadmill for “THE MIGHTY PEAKS OF EVEREST” or some shit, and was running nearly vertically at a full out sprint while texting and not sweating. I hated him. I hoped his sherpas killed him when he stopped for some kale and quinoa bars.
“Begin running for one minute,” said the foxy Mormon app in the judgy sports bra.
“WE JUST STOPPED RUNNING! SOMEBODY SHOOT HER PLEASE” said the asshole brain.
Masochist brain tried to say something, but was not audible over the rhino-like thunder of my footfalls.
“fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou,” shouted asshole brain, clear as day.
I wondered how that happened.
“I bought a megaphone, Jabba,” he shouted and let a long squeal of feedback burst out of the megaphone.
Masochist brain zipped up his gimp mask. I continued to run.
“You have completed run two of eight.” I was sure that judgy foxy Mormon ice queen was smirking at my moobs.
Some point later, I completed my cooldown. I turned off the Mormon, and told her to put on some damn clothes.
The asshole brain was sitting in a corner, crying.
Masochist brain said “Ok. Weights?”
It’s going to be a long process.