Every morning except on Saturday’s and Sunday’s, the chips and I go for a nice long wog. It is a fast pace walk, for someone like me. The boy jogs, so we wog together. We have been doing this for 3 years now, and I have built myself up to about a mile. I am sure I could go further, but my knees refuse to co-operate with me.
Unfortunately, sometimes the weather doesn’t co-operate either.
So, when it is ugly ~~ugly meaning raining, icy, snowing, or below 20º~~outside, we walk inside. We abhor walking inside. Not because we are in the dungeon among the drying laundry and not because we have to stare at white concrete walls. We abhor walking inside because of this.
We hate the machine. It lies.
It is a torture device of the worst sort. I make the boy go first. I have to have that time to psyche myself up to get on it.
When he is finished, I climb aboard and get busy. While I am being tortured, I stare at the white wall, and wonder if the man that laid the brick forgot to bring his plumb line that day because it certainly isn’t straight.
I look to my right and try to decide what to make for supper out of two boxes of pasta, 2 bags of dried lentil soup, 50 pounds of flour, 15 pounds of sugar, 2 bags of slivered almonds, 5 cans of green beans, 2 cans of tomatoes, and 15 cans of cream of mushroom soup. I’ll have to think about that later, my heart rate is climbing, and I can not think when I can not breathe.
I know I have gone at least 3 minutes, maybe 4. I look down.
I told you. It lies. The lies are brutal and horrific. It just sucked 20 minutes of my life away.
Nobody withstands the machine.