Let Me Not Criticize A Man Until I've Walked .38 Miles In His Moccasins
I got on my TreadClimber tonight for the first time since I broke my ankle and walked for thirty minutes. I was afraid and new-fawn wobbly and I was slooow. I was traveling a hardy .7 mph. Seven-tenths of a mile per hour is relatively the same speed at which grass grows, half the speed of a leisurely stroll, or just a hair faster that all-out dawdling. But I felt like I was sprinting across a meadow, uphill, both ways. Damn, I love that machine. I’d call my TreadClimber a “treadmill“, but that would be like calling a pair of Reef Slaps “just another pair of flip-flops” or Starbuck’s Seven-Layer Bar, “a nice snack”. Each of these things are an experience unto themselves. They are a veritable cornucopia of the richness of a well-lived, purposeful life.

Yes, there are others, but these are my top three. Number four would be my softball bat. After that, it’s all just will-nilly conjecture on my part according to inappropriate mood swings and blood sugar levels. I also liked my grabber, but dammit, I can reach everything I need. Now I just use it to get the remote off the ottoman or turn off light switches. See, now I’ve just started shotgunning ideas. And on a reasonable day, that product would be somewhere in the low 100’s. I’m outta here...