The treadmill heals all.

So I have this meeting in the morning.

I don't want to go.  In fact, I'd rather give myself a lobotomy so I can sit there drooling through it; that way I would have an excuse not to say anything.  Then they could whisper about me behind my back such things like, "Oooh, there goes lobotomy girl" and "Who does she think she is--someone who's had a lobotomy?" and I wouldn't even care.

Needless to say, I came home rather worked up about this meeting.  Like all homicidal-like worked up, contemplating quitting my job and curling up into a ball on my office floor for about the next 10 years or so.  But then I remembered I hadn't finished my workout from this morning (8 x 800m), so the treadmill beckoned.

I didn't get up in enough time this AM to finish the workout, so I decided to split it in two, doing 4 of those 800s in the morning and 4 when I got home from work.  After some messing around with my Garmin watch, I finally got started, trucking away through some episodes of Dr. G: Medical Examiner. (Oh what was it that killed them, Dr. G?  I can hardly stand the suspense!  For the record, Animaniacs is MUCH better treadmill TV.)  Run fast run fast run fast my lungs will explode run fast almost done run fast then ahhhhh walking the recovery mmmmmmmm.

Here's what my dogs were doing while I was sweating to Dr. G:

"Do you mind?  All of your treadmill noisiness is interrupting my beauty sleep."

After about 40 minutes of treadmillin' it, my brain had been righted again.  Or at least was only set slightly askew instead of dangerously dangling on the edge of a homicidal precipice.  Thanks, endorphins!

The treadmill, I found, heals all.

Instead of shooting nasty glares and snidely raising my eyebrow through my entire meeting tomorrow, I decided in the soft afterglow of my treadmill session that I shall joke my way through it, lest my blood pressure reach dangerous levels again.

However, they may think I've had a lobotomy anyway, considering the quality of my science teacher jokes.