Yesterday we had the whole evening at home, and I was determined to be productive. I worked on entering addresses for Christmas card recipients into a spreadsheet while Andrew walked Dexter. We ate our frozen meals and then did bills. I was getting things together to continue work on Christmas cards when I noticed Andrew futzing around with the remaining treadmill piece.
By "remaining treadmill piece," I mean the main bulk of the treadmill. We had carried the other few pieces upstairs the night before after a comical pick-up in which the sporting goods employees couldn't find the key for the truck on which the treadmill was loaded and then the treadmill box was larger than the dimensions listed. Andrew drove it home squished between the (ever slowly sliding downward) box and the driver's side door, and I sat on top of the backseat squished between the box and that door slumped over so I wouldn't bang my head on the roof every time we hit a bump. We were grateful we live close to the sporting good store... and that we didn't get pulled over.
When we got it home on Tuesday, there were... difficulties getting it out of the car. We persevered, and we managed to get everything upstairs except the main bulk.
I just couldn't carry it. I had visions of us getting halfway up the stairs and then my body giving out and one of us dying a comically tragic treadmill-related death. The box was listed at 200 pounds, and nearly all of that was in this piece.
Although we desparately wanted all the pieces upstairs because that's the kind of OCD people we are, we acquiesced to reason and called a friend. His plan was to come over last night after work and help us haul that bad boy upstairs.
I don't know how to put this. Our friend was called out on a Bow-Related Emergency. Seriously. Bows as in those things made of ribbon that adorn festive packages. Bow-related emergency. It was a valid emergency; it had to do with a live musical production, not a package for Aunt Gertrude, but I did mock him a tiny bit.
So, back to the story. I'm labeling Christmas cards and Andrew is futzing with the hideously heavy piece of treadmill. I ask him what he's doing, knowing the answer. "I really want this upstairs."
..."Do you want help?"
I laugh. "Right. We'll just nip this upstairs. No problem. What would you like me to do?"
"Get on the stairs and steady the top. I'll lift from the bottom and sit it on the first step. You keep it from tipping backwards and killing me. I don't know how difficult that will be."
"No problem. Lift with your legs."
The next thing I know I'm flat on my back on the stairs with a 200 lb. treadmill on me.
"Huh. That was unexpected. Maybe I just wasn't ready for the weight. Let's try this again."
The next time I landed on my bum with the treadmill on top of me. I considered this progress.
I also realized that I had been pushed down and sat on twice by a 200 lb. schoolyard bully. In those situations, struggle is futile (the bully is bigger) and laughter is the only option (as it shows you're not scared of a bully). So I started to laugh. Uncontrollably. For a really long time. While Andrew kept asking, "Are you okay? You don't seem okay. You're laughing like you're in pain. Are you in pain?"
Once I regained control, We lifted the treadmill back up and reevaluated our strategy. We ended up scooting it on its side up the stairs, and we were successful in the end.
Today, my bum and the back of my head hurts. I believe getting healthy is trying to kill me.