So last week, I decided to be a responsible adult for once and go to the gym. You know, just to see if my athleticism was still in there somewhere under all the Netflix and nachos.
I walk in, and everything’s new and shiny. People are lifting weights like they’re auditioning for The Avengers, and I’m just trying to figure out how to adjust the seat on the leg press without pulling a hamstring.
Anyway, I finally settle on the treadmill. Safe choice, right? I start walking. Feeling good. Confident. I crank it up to a jog, even glance around like, “Yeah, I belong here. I could totally be in a protein shake commercial.”
Then out of nowhere, the treadmill decides we’re training for the Olympics. It kicks up to sprint mode. My legs are flailing, my arms are doing the Macarena, and my water bottle shoots off like a missile into someone’s protein shake.
A trainer runs over and goes, “Sir! Are you okay?”
I say, between gasps, “Yeah… I’m just testing… the emergency stop feature.”
He looks at me dead serious and says, “Sir… this treadmill isn’t even on.”
