Don't Disco on the Treadmill

Today, I learned a couple of things during my cardio interval training run at the gym.

First, “John” from yesterday, is not only rude and impatient, but also, a horrible listener.

I specifically asked him about an interval training machine that looks like a treadmill.  I even told him where I thought they were located. Ignoring me, he led me to a basic treadmill. Today, realizing I’m on my own here, I scouted out the gym and found what I was looking for. It’s called a Freemotion treadmill.

With several pre-programmed workout plans, including one called “interval,” it’s a snap to use. With a press of the interval button, easy to follow instructions appear on the digital display. Enter the amount of time you want to work out, the interval ratio you want, your lowest speed, the highest speed you want to run, and your age and weight. Hit “Quickstart” and the machine does the rest. You just have to keep up. Easy breezy.

This leads me to believe that John should rethink his career in the service industry. He’s more suited to a dark little office with limited human interaction -- maybe as an actuary. I get the sense that he thinks we’re all pretty stupid, so figuring out the financial impact of how and when we die should be right up his alley.

The second thing I learned is that disco dancing and running do not mix.

I got a little overexcited when the Bee Gees’ song, You Should Be Dancing, came on my ipod. (I sooooo should have been at Studio 54 in its heyday.) Jogging along to the beat and trying desperately to hold back my Barry Gibb falsetto, I couldn’t help but perform the Travolta dance move (the one where he sticks his pointed finger in the air and moves it diagonally across his body).

During a particularly flamboyant arm gesture, I accidentally pulled out the kill switch on the treadmill. The Freemotion machine stopped immediately, dousing my disco inferno. Not only did this totally throw off my groove, but I had to start my entire workout over, since I couldn’t find a “resume” button. Ugh. I should be dancing, but apparently only on the dance floor.

From now on, I’m saving my cool moves for the clubs, and the minivan, which is also where I do most of my singing. (I’m telling ya, I could be the next American Idol. I’ve got the moves--obviously. If only I had the “it” factor. And by “it” I mean singing talent.)