So last week, I decided to finally act like a responsible adult and hit the gym. You know — just to check if there was still an athlete buried somewhere under all the takeout and binge-watching.
I walk in, and the place looks like a spaceship. Everyone’s ripped, lifting weights like they’re prepping for a Marvel movie, and I’m over here trying to figure out how to sit on the leg press without dislocating something.
Eventually, I make the safe call — treadmill. Can’t mess that up, right? I start walking. Feeling solid. Confident. I bump it up to a light jog, even toss in a casual glance around like, “Yep, fitness influencer material right here.”
Then suddenly — chaos.
The treadmill kicks into high gear like it’s go time for the 100-meter dash. My legs are sprinting, my arms forget how arms work, and my water bottle launches into orbit, landing square in someone’s smoothie.
A trainer comes rushing over, eyes wide:
“Sir! Are you okay?!”
I’m gasping for air, clutching my pride, and I manage to wheeze out,
“Yeah… just testing the emergency stop.”
He blinks, looks down at the machine, and says,
“Sir… the treadmill’s not even on.”
