This is my treadmill, George Clooney. See George on the top left and me on the top right of the display?:
Here's a closer look:
I work my butt off on him at least five days a week. I like what he does for me when my workouts are over. However, when I'm in the midst of walking/running on him? I hate his friggin guts.
As you can see, I have a small television right in front of George. Sometimes, I make my way through my FORTY FIVE MINUTES OF SHEER TREADMILL TORTURE by walking/running to the beat of whoever is cooking on the Food Network. I kid you not. I guess that would make me some sort of a culinary masochist, but whatever.
Anyway, this morning, as I was doing up George Clooney, the box that contains my super realistic pre-lit Christmas tree which I use every year because (A) real Christmas trees drip messy sap on my clean floors and (B) real Christmas trees were banned from my house BY ME when the last real tree we had HAD A FRIGGIN SPIDER'S NEST IN IT...AAAAHHHH!!!!
God. I seriously have the attention span of dryer lint.
Anyway, like I was saying, there's a box on a shelf to the right of George Clooney that contains my Christmas tree. And said box just sort of JUMPED OUT at me this morning, kind of MOCKING me as I literally worked my ass off. Check it out, right behind my head (read the top line):
Yeah. That's what I think, too.