Lately, Toby and I have been meeting after work at the New York Sports Club on 14th street and 6th avenue. Justifying the cost of the NYSC membership means having to attend often. And today, I can barely move.

I feel as though someone beat me with a sack of oranges. Twice. My ass hurts, my legs hurt, the top of my feet hurt, my shoulders hurt, my arms hurt, even my nipples hurt. I can’t even begin to explain the amount of pain I am in today.

But that’s not why I’m writing.

I have always found that the experiences one has while at the gym are rather fascinating. While I’m there, I can’t help but watch everyone around me as I have conversations with myself. What else is there to do but listen to an iPod and watch everyone (including yourself) act weird? Nothing. Even TV can’t keep my interest for long. Basically, I’ll do whatever I can to make the mere split seconds I am beating myself with go by a bit faster. If that means pretending everyone is watching me and if I stop running they will all laugh? Then, so be it. Keep running, bitch. If that means saying I can’t stop until the calories I ingested for lunch are blinking GONE! Across the red beaming lights below. Then, so be it. Keep running, bitch.

Basically, I create little milestones just to so I can push myself a bit further.

I’ll go until I reach my age in minutes.

(Hit that.)

I’ll go until my perogies are digested and gone.

(They’re gone.)

I’ll run until this guy either gets rid of PJ Harvey or he licks her injuries.


If you stop the guards will shoot you.

Whatever works.

The other day while I’m talking myself into beating myself with a sack of invisible oranges, a young lady hopped onto the treadmill next to me. She was a wee bit shorter than me, probably 5”4’. She was of an average build. Her extra weight resided around her hips and on her thighs, while mine surrounds my belly like an inner tube. (Not that I make it a habit to compare myself to others, I’m just trying to paint a picture without giving anyone the impression that I am MISS FIT USA.)

She stood there punching in numbers. It did not appear she knew what she was doing. (We’ve all been there). Her hair was brown and long. It was pulled back in a ponytail. She was pretty in that sorority sort of way. Finally, her treadmill kicked on. She put her headphones on then placed a magazine down on the rack in front of her. It was the thickest, pinkest magazine I have ever seen.


And then I saw it. On her left hand was the BIGGEST rock I have ever seen in person. It was sittin’ pretty and perfectly. It stared back at me as if to say, “You are merely coal.”

She opened the magazine to a page that had been previously dog-eared. Lying before her was a spread. On one page was a close up of a woman in a veil. She was perfectly done up. She looked like a doll, a porcelain doll.

“Photoshop.” I cynically thought to myself.

On the other page, the same model was wearing a wedding gown—a perfectly fitted, most elegant, probably 10 thousand dollar wedding gown. This woman was a model. She was born into this world solely to wear long, elegant wedding gowns. And I have to admit, the gown was really beautiful. And there would be no way in hell I could ever fit into it, let alone look good in it.

“Hussy.” I cynically thought to myself.

The girl next to me began to jog. She was running towards something. Her goal was much clearer than any of mine have ever been. I knew at that very moment that she will eventually fit into that gown and look even better than the phony woman in the spread before her. But I had no way of telling her that.

But by God, if didn’t witness the most perfect display of an incentive to keep on running.

Tonight, I am bringing the bikini I wore at age 20. I will place it before me, and I will run backwards for 10 years.


  1. K, now I have to type my entire comment over. Blah.

    What a great idea that is! I am immediately getting a picture of the bridesmaid dress that I want to look damn good in come October, and will use that as incentive, god knows I need some.


  2. Our upgrade to PHP5 left her comments functionality broken because she was on a “break” from the site and this is the first time they’ve been used. It’s fixed now.


  3. Now I can say what I wanted. Jon, I need you to come with me to the gym every day and pick on while I’m running. I told Toby that I love it when you pick on me. So, if you can do that, incessantly tear me up while I’m jogging (Full Metal Jacket style) you’re like totally hired.


  4. Do you really want me to pick on you?

    I’m a mean, heartless bastard. I might be too tough.


  5. Yay! Comments!

    Boo! Treadmills!


  6. Woo-hoo! The comments have returned!


  7. Crap.. I’m late to the party. Donde esta la beer?


  8. Speaking of beer in the morning, yesterday, I had to take pictures of beer for a project I am working on. I’ll tell ya, there is nothing more revolting then smelling beer before 8 a.m. —before you’ve had coffee or even brushed your teeth. Yuck. And then I left it sitting on the window sill next to the heater for over 6 hours. By the time I finally decided I wasn’t going to need it anymore, it was hot like a cup of tea. Mmmmmmmmm warm beer.


  9. But you’re Canadian, so I guess you can have a beer at 7:30 a.m.


  10. I have the photo to prove it too… just posted it


  11. Ok, let’s try that link again. And


  12. Lana drinks too much booze before 8 a.m. and done goes and busts up my Web site. Way to go, Lana.


  13. Custom tags before 9am were too much for me. I’m sorry.


  14. “even my nipples hurt.”

    Does your husband know you blog stuff like that?


  15. It was his idea to use the wax.


  16. Betcha you reeked of something besides teen spirit after all THAT incentive.


  17. Mihow, I have to say that your images are quite stunning. Really. I am facinated with your city cause I have never been there and at one time wanted to move there. But now I see it through your eyes. Just fantastic!


  18. Awww, Tina, you’re too sweet. Well, if you’re ever in town, feel free to drop us a line. We’ll show you whatever we can.


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