I’m pretty excited about something that showed up at my house about two weeks ago. And no, it’s not a spirited soul named Stormy who’s younger than many of my socks. Although I wouldn’t be heartbroken if that happened. Just saying, if you’re listening, Stormy, and frankly, that can be an alias. I’m not here to judge.
No, what I’m tickled, tickled by, I say, is my new answer to the sedentary life of the author.
By way of preamble, I’ve always said that if I want to get my heart rate up I’ll just buy a carton of Marlboros, have a XL triple cheese and meat pizza, and invite the IRS to audit me.
But I’ve changed my evil ways. At least, one of them.
What the hell is he talking about, you’re probably asking yourself right about now – and well you should be. The anticipation will simply make my revelation even better. Trust me on that.
Are you ready? Wait for it…wait for it…
I got a treadmill desk.
And it is Godhead. My life has completely changed since it showed up. Seriously.
After 18 months of sitting in one spot for 15 hours a day, I was starting to get, well, dare I say it, curmudgeonly. No doubt due to my lack of any exercise – and all because you people are such greedy word whores and can only think of yourselves, putting nothing but pressure on me to continue writing the next one, and the next after that. Novels. Not words. Although novels are certainly composed of words. Mine simply happen to contain many of the same ones. Like kill. And blood. But I digress.
The point is that the new treadmill desk has made me a new man, or at least a slightly less used one. While the first few days were filled with growing pains (the vibration from my shambling steps was vibrating the tequila bottle off the edge of the desk after a certain amount of inattention, and the ashtray kept sliding onto the belt, which wasn’t so much of a problem until I turned the damned thing on and it was moving), by the end of the week I was walking to nowhere for hours a day, like a pro. Assuming there are pro treadmill walkers. Which I doubt there are. For good reason, actually.
Now, I’ve been walking 6 to 8 miles a day as I write. No exaggeration. I pace myself at around 2.3 miles per hour, and go for three to four hours – one on, two off, one on, two off. My dogs think I’m insane, but F them, as well as my neighbors, who are still testy about the incident with their children, my homemade napalm, and the claymores.
My biggest fear going into the full time writing thing, besides having to quit drinking (thankfully, not required), was that I would lose my girlish figure and have to work all the harder to qualify for my old gig dancing in the man thong at Jalapeno Heat for the tourist ladies. The featured soloist positions, especially, are in hot demand, and the competition is fierce. I don’t think I could bear the rejection if Pancho and Gerardo declined me in open auditions, choosing a younger, firmer dancer for the premier position in the most heralded all-male boylesque revue in Mazatlan. But now that I have the treadmill desk, those fears have been rendered groundless, and I’m confident I can be on the pole again whenever I like, shaking my money maker to I Can’t Go For That dressed as a construction worker, or naughty cowboy, or saucy sailor, or whatnot.
So what have we learned here? That dreams are important, and we should cherish ours, even if they involve demeaning and humiliating gyrations for middle-aged gringa women with shameless hunger in their inebriated eyes and the need for a decent manicure (ladies – the hangnails are a hazard – that’s all I’m saying). And that physical fitness should not be cast aside as we labor away on the next 50 Shades of Yarn for Mister Whiskers. No, thanks to technology, and about $1500, we can have it all – the joy of wallowing in obscurity as well as reasonable fitness, assuming that you view walking at a moderate pace as the most strenuous workout you’re likely to do.
In all seriousness, if you’re an author, do yourself a favor and check this baby out. I had mine painted with black lacquer and flames, but that’s just because I’m all that and you know how I roll. It changed my life, as well as my electric bill, but that’s a whole ‘nother topic, and I’m not complaining. Much.
Oh, and JETis seeing record downloads since I took it free in the US and UK. If you haven’t read it, you basically suck and should be completely ashamed of yourself, and should go download it immediately, because otherwise clowns will boogarize you and you’ll die cold and alone of brain ebola while lying in a drainage ditch, mocked by your triumphant enemies and jeered by the few people you thought actually cared about you, as a harsh, uncaring God turns his back on your misery and the Devil peels your living flesh from your bones while you roast in eternal hell. Don’t let that happen. It’s free. Don’t risk it. Especially not the boogarizing. Nobody wants clown boogarizing.
On a side note, I was going to start including gratuitous snaps of adorable kitties in a basket or cute puppies wearing funny party hats on my blog as a shameless attempt to curry favor and boost traffic, but instead, I decided on this: