Last night after a wildly entertaining evening with a sink full of dishes and teaching myself to empty my vacuum, I got Kiddo into bed and I dressed for a work out. I hopped on the treadmill and flipped the switch. My precious and charming twenty-one-year-old treadmill does not have any concept of gradual speed increase, it simply launches into motion when you turn it on. So I’m in my normal prepared stance, ready to go from still to a near run in a split second, when all the lights in the house dim and flicker and the thing sputters and dies.
A moment of silence and may she rest in peace.
We only had a few sweaty weeks together where we bid farewell to some stubborn weight that had settled in my hips.
I’m told things like ‘blew a surge’ and other things like ‘need a surge protector.’ And I’m all but what does that MEAN? It sounds like it’s dead but I’m up for second opinions.
(Second opinion from funny co-worker this morning when I asked about ‘blowing a surge’: “Last I checked I’m not gay and I don’t even like System of a Down.”)
Defeated, I move on to free weights when my cell phone rings. Rarely would my dad call around nine p.m. as he works twenty-seven hour work days so I worried for a second before he was exclaiming, “TELL ME YOU JUST SAW THAT.”
“Buhh, saw what?”
OH, JUST A MOMENT TO GO DOWN IN DODGER FUCKING HISTORY. THAT IS ALL.
I spent the rest of the night in between mourning and moping. I could probably cry right now if I wasn’t on drugs in a good mood.
-CJ
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