Part 1:
"Come on, hon. When was the last time you tried running on the treadmill?"
"Uh, I guess it was that time last year when we went to the gym but the pool was closed."
"And how much did you weigh that time last year?"
"Let's see, it was end of August or beginning of September, so… one-fifty, maybe."
"And you're how much less than that now?"
"Forty, no, thirty-nine pounds. But I still don't see –"
"Thirty-nine pounds? Don't you think that might make a little bit of difference?"
"I like swimming. I don't like running."
"Why don't you give it a try and see if it feels any better now?"
Part 2:
The TV at one end of the row of treadmills was playing live political speeches. The TV at the other end was playing Kathie Lee.
I parked myself right in the middle and faced a brick wall — no, not a metaphorical one, a real one, with a sign taped in the middle that read "Attention members: Please do not unplug treadmills to plug in fans."
1 kilometer. Twenty-six minutes and thirty-three seconds.
But you know what? My knees don't hurt, and I don't have any shin splints.
Maybe it's not that bad.
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