Have you ever attempted to use a stair stepper while moderately intoxicated? The answer to that question may seem obvious to some, but I exercise under some unique conditions: drunk. Ergo, if I were to answer my own question: yes, last night.
Usually the treadmill is my go to after a few Silver Bullets. Apropos isn’t it? Assuming you don’t suffer from vertigo–alcohol induced or otherwise–the treadmill is arguably a much safer workout option after drinking than running or otherwise being ambulatory on pavement. Trust me on that one. My face has a tendency to connect with concrete in a manner that is highly unnatural for a human employed outside of the extreme sport and/or construction industry. Now you can understand why I have to focus on the look of my body. I use “focus” loosely here.
Not everyone buys into the treadmill hype, though. Elliptical machines are a safe bet–as in, it’s safe to bet that you’ll actually gain weight on one of those. If you get the gait right, you can go for ages, a trick I learned from neighborhood sorority girls whose weight loss journey via this sloth-like machine I followed for a month before turning attention instead to the routine airing of My 600-lb. Life. But seriously, who am I to judge? If you’ve spent the three hours leading up to a gym visit drinking like I often have, it’s also safe to say that weight loss isn’t a top priority. Silent judgment and subsequent blog posts–that’s a different story.
Of late, I’ve been experimenting with the rowing machine. I enjoy this piece of equipment because it requires you to sit down, and any exercise of which sitting is an integral component is an exercise that’s appropriate for me. There are difficulties associated with inebriated rowing, however. When I get into a good rhythm–somewhere between beginning and ending five minutes in–I am overwhelmed with a deep regret over not joining the college rowing team. I’m not even sure if my land-locked university had a rowing team, let alone the water to sustain such a team. But this moment is nevertheless where visions of Good Will Hunting and New England in the fall subsume the fantasy. Quickly thereafter, I start to get sea sick. Nausea at the gym is unfortunate and indicates that you are a huge loser. I may be a borderline addict, but loser I am not.
Last night I decided to ditch the rowing machine and step outside of my comfort zone, which happened to involve stepping onto a stair stepper. This was not just any stair stepper–it had actual stairs off of which you could step and/or fall. I think you know where this story is going. But long before I bailed off the stair stepper–well, not that long–I got my toes stuck in the stair joints. At the time, I thought this was simply how one achieved a firm footing on the stairs. In hindsight, and three toenails later, I think I was doing something wrong. And I don’t mean that in the walking public service announcement kind of way. It’s an issue of form, not substance (abuse).
Net-net: In spite of the accident, I do not regret my cold-filtered determination to show a bunch of strangers who I will inevitably run into throughout the duration of my lease the downfalls of drinking and exercising. Someone had to. I am, though, thankful that I didn’t seriously injure myself, and that’s what dodging and drinking a Silver Bullet at the same time looks like.