The Treadmill and Me

Source:  magentafrog publications
Source: magentafrog publications

I stared bleary eyed at the treadmill console.  The bright red digital dial and the blinking numbers sat before me, daring me not to press ‘start’.  I felt like shit.  I did not want to do this.  Couldn’t I have just slept in?

No.  Mr Magentafrog and I had a plan.  He was getting up at 5:00am to work out and then he would wake me after for my turn.  If the children woke up in the meantime he would take care of all of them so I could get some sleep. Ha.  I almost laugh at the thought, by 5:00am I have only just gotten to sleep.  My nightshift, as I like to call it, consists of various combinations of crying Master 1, Master 2 waking with ‘night terrors’ (as opposed to the terror he is in the daytime) and Master 4 yelling from his top bunk that he needs to go to the toilet.  Well at least the neighbourhood knows he doesn’t wet his bed anymore, he tells the world in the middle of the night!   So up I get, doing the rounds while Mr Magentafrog sleeps soundly and peacefully through the lot of it.  I swear he wouldn’t hear a truck drive through our bedroom!

So here I was, contemplating my first morning workout in about two weeks having lost a bit of momentum with life getting in the way of my attainment of the Beyoncé body.  I am not a morning person.  I looked at my reflection in the glass doors in front of the treadmill, I didn’t like what I saw; hair like a troll-doll, glasses askew, shirt too small and pants too big (such is the clothing dilemma when weight loss commences) . . . but I had to make a decision, the children were restless inside and I could hear them coming for me.  It was a choice of press ‘start’ or spend the morning with their demands and jostling for my attention. Press the damn button.  Press the damn button.  Press the damn button. OK, fuckit.  Go!

I start walking, slowly at first.  I start my music.  Before long I am humming along to the tunes and feeling a little less awkward and slightly more awake.  The 30-minute workout was taking forever, I just wanted it to end, then a strange thing happened.  I started to enjoy it.  I reminded myself that the metabolism boost would help me throughout the day, well past breakfast.  There were good things happening to me.

Then it happened.  Mr Magentafrog was calling for me.  FFS, can I not be left along for 30 minutes!  From the intermittent words I could make out from inside the house I gathered that all children were in the bath and I needed to come inside and watch them so he could go to the toilet.  WTF!  Gee, what would I do in that predicament?  What any mother would do.  Pull the plug and get the kids out, or at least Master 1 and put him safely in his cot until my business was done.

To be fair, Mr Magentafrog doesn’t realise how selfish it is to call short my exercise time; it’s not deliberate.  It doesn’t excuse the behaviour but it causes endless consternation for me. No, heck; it pisses me off no end!

I had only minutes to go on my workout which I stubbornly completed, albeit anxiously and rushed, but I was determined to get my time.  Once 30 minutes was up, I quickly turned the treadmill off, grabbed towels and swapped the bath time watch with Mr Magentafrog in the bathroom.

My next workout had just begun.


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