My Toy . . .

This morning when I hopped on the treadmill for a 20 minute run for my 5K speed training, I discovered that my son had been tearing at the padding on the handle of the treadmill.  I was devastated.  I felt like a kid whose toy doll was de-limbed by some terrible little boy with a Mohawk.  This wasn't a tear that had just happened, it is one that he has been consistently chipping away at.  If you notice the picture of the treadmill, the frontward handle was chipped away many years ago and duck taped.  The other one was intact.  Well now the second handle has to be wrapped in black duck tape too . . . and I ain't happy.  

There are very few things that I own that bring me a modicum of joy.  The treadmill is one.  Hubby bought it shortly after we got married because he had these grand plans of getting back in shape while watching TV.  He took months of research and review.  We went to countless stores.  And he ultimately bought it online.  It was a heavy treadmill to carry to our apartment and put together.  After he found the right spot he started his workout.  Then stopped.  I then started exercising on it thereafter because it was just standing there unwanted.  It became my toy.  I wanted it.  I made sure to maintain it and use it.  I can count on both hands and both feet how many times hubby has used it.  12.  Yes, 12.  We've had it almost 11 years.  

This treadmill has moved with us about 6 times in those 11 years and has been a faithful companion.  So to have it marred was upsetting.  Okay, it is just a treadmill, but this treadmill gives me motivation to run.  I trained for my first 5K with this treadmill.  I plan to keep training and exceeding my fitness goals.  It is a great machine.  And it is mine.  All mine.  

So that little boy with the mohawk has been warned that if he touches it again, his head will be shaved and he will be sent off to military school.