Welcome to my gym. I share this, because I don't want my fellow art director, Marin, to feel badly that when I work out, I'm facing a corner in my basement. It's not so bad, Marin.
As part of living my best life dot com, I decided to bring the old walking routine inside when I realized: you never sweat while strolling through Como Park. Never. Now, if you put me on a moving belt that forces me to go at the bone crushing pace of 3.8 miles per hour, well…that's a whole different story.
I get up, every single morning by 6 a.m. (later on weekends), and spend a little time in my gym in the hopes that one day, the cellulite and chub that has overtaken various parts of my body will one day be just a sweet, tender memory.
I've had this treadmill since I was pregnant with Cole. I bought it at Sears for $399 bucks. No bells. No whistles. You turn it on and set a speed, and you go. Just like my Honda Civic. The bottom line: it still works.
What a cozy place to work out, though! I have Kleenex for my ever-running work out nose, and my JBL Sound System, ready to provide my "CH40 Walking Mix" which is really code for "Neil sings to me personally for 40 minutes."
And when I'm finished, I can curl up with a good book (which is always the first thing I think of doing, after sweating profusely for 30 minutes), in one of our two antique chairs that Dan really is planning to one day restore to their former glory, if in fact, there truly was ever a glory phase for either. I'm a bit suspect, truth be told.
I know my basement is never going to win any home design awards. It's not even technically finished. I don't even technically like being down there. But this, my friends, is where I'm hoping to leave a goodly portion of my ass.