My new worst enemy.

She hates me. I know it. But hey, I’m not crazy about her, either.

Okay, that’s a tad of an understatement. I pretty much loath her as much as she does me. However, she always seems to get my blood pressure up, while I don’t faze her. It almost appears as if she chuckles at my attempts to rile her, and I swear I hear her taunting me, “Ha, you don’t have what it takes.”

It would be easy if I could just walk away, but she’s taken up residence in my study.

Yup, as I write, she peers over my shoulder. If I dare go grab a snack (You know, the good snacks, like those little Halloween candy bars, that shouldn’t have calories in them, but do) she stands as a reminder to how hard it is to get the calorie-results to go away.

Yup, my new worst enemy is a Pro-form 320 Elliptical machine.

I swear, guys, I didn’t know what I was doing when I paid to bring her home. I mean, I thought we could become instant friends. People at the store swore I’d love her. Love her?

Would somebody please tell me how that is possible? She’s a torture machine. And I didn’t come by this opinion hastily. I fully intended for our relationship to be one that I would cherish. The day after I brought her home, I got all suited up, like going on a date. I put on my new workout clothes, an extra swipe of deodorant, and with my head held high and determined to win the battle of the bulge, I crawled on top of her.

I want you to know that I lasted a whole . . . two minutes.

TWO MINUTES!!

Hey, I knew I wasn’t in the best condition, but . . . two minutes? Come on!!! I can almost hold my breath for that long. But after a measly 120 seconds, I was a goner, toast, a bundle of spasming muscles and nerve endings. (And please do not compare this to an orgasm, because it’s not the good kind of reduced-to-a-puddle type of feeling. Ahh, but being the fighter that I am . . . I got my breath under control, sopped the sweat off my brow, and crawled back on top of my new worse enemy to give her another taste of me.

And you will be so proud to know that I SHOWED her. I made it to two and half minutes!

TWO AND HALF MINUTES!!

And when I got off – okay, when I fell off— my heart was taking laps around my ribcage, and I’m pretty sure my lungs were chasing my heart around the chest cavity, because I sure as heck couldn’t find the ability to draw any oxygen into my air-receiving organs. And it had to be because the lungs were missing and not because two and half minutes on an exercising machine had restricted my ability to breathe.

So I sat there, a sweating heap of toast, gasping, on my office floor. And like most of us when we are at rock bottom, our brains start flashing bits and pieces of memories at us. (Sort of like a near death experience.) Anyway, the memory my brain chose to toss at me at this totally inappropriate moment was one that happened the day before. The memory involved me, standing before my enemy (before she was my enemy) wide-eyed with enthusiasm, and my dear-sweet, totally-frugal husband at my side. Then I heard the words he’d spoken to me, “Are you sure you’re going to use this?”

“Of course, I’m going to use this.” I looked at his disbelieving smirk and said, “I promise.” Then I handed over “HIS” credit card to pay for my new worse enemy.

With the memory and my promise floating around my oxygen deprived brain, that’s when it happened. That’s when I found the strength within myself. I would not be outdone. I would, at all cost, prove my husband wrong.

And believe me when I say I fully intend to keep that promise: “Of course, I’m going to use this.”

Which is why I need your help.

You see, I need to come up with a really good use for this piece of crap that I brought home. A use that involves anything other than what it was intended to do.



I’ve considered using it as a book shelf.






I offered my feline the top of the line Fancy Feast
to use it as a cat climber.





I’ve toyed with the idea of making
it a clothes hanger.






However, I’m still not sure if that’s good enough, so until I can find that perfect use, I’m obligated to continue to climb on top of this beast. By the way, I’m up to four minutes.

FOUR MINUTES!!

So please, guys. Help a girl out. What can I use this torture machine for?

Crime Scene Christie