The commercial for the Nordic Track incline trainer torture device came on and Ethan started making fun of it. “Look, it’s a magic machine, it tones your ENTIRE body… OR… you could just go run up and down a hill, it’s CHEAPER!!!”

I said, “Look, it does tone your arms, you have to really HANG ON to that thing.”

And, I know that I would have to really hang on to those handles and my arms would be totally toned because OTHERWISE? The first time it started tilting up my ass would shoot off the back of that thing and plow right into Mike’s well-organized shelving system with it’s perfectly organized and well-stored rubbermaid totes.

Do you know what kind of havoc that would cause in my house?

Me, laying on the concrete garage floor, groaning in pain, worried I had broken something (again) or pulled something or was bleeding internally while Mike yelled at me for jacking up his garage, again.

You might ask, “Why would you point yourself toward the shelving system anyway?”

I’ll tell you, the other choices are extremely limited. First, I am not going to risk falling into the kegerator or Mike’s beloved shelves where he stores his fishing equipment, that, my friends, would be a fate worse than death.

Next option? Pointing my ass toward the work bench. That is INSANITY. The workbench has a DRILL PRESS, VICE, and POINTY TOOLS. And, Mike would bitch for DAYS about cleaning blood off the concrete floor.

Last option? The garage door itself.

And there is NO WAY I am going to let my neighbors see me shoot through my garage door and land in the driveway ass over tea kettle. No. Not going to happen. I draw the line at public humiliation.

Obviously.