Rather than blogging on my lunch hour lately, I’ve been perusing the housing market. Frustration inevitably ensues when I invariably discover that, just like each day before, it’s next to impossible to find a suitable home in a suitable area that’s also at our price point. And by suitable, I mean fabulous. Obviously.
The fantasies that fill my head over the long hours spent on the treadmill this week (as rain + darkness + cold = hypothermic twisted ankles) have at least managed to make the time go quickly. No sugar plums here, just acres of land and plenty of historical charm.
So, imagine, if you will, the direction my thoughts fled when I detected a whiff of something burning on my run the other night. No? Not following me? I’m going to pretend that’s not because I’m the sole evil mind among angels…
I smelled that tell-tale sign of rubber burning and I immediately began to worry if my treadmill was about to explode. And then I started to wonder if I could sue the gym if it did. And how hurt I would have to get to win big and buy the house of my dreams. See? Evil mind. Don’t judge.
Anyhow, just as I was 3 miles deep into building my new dream house (complete with a kitchen island and crown molding, of course) my fantasy came crumbling down. Loudly. You see, it wasn’t my treadmill that was ailing, it was my neighbor’s. And you should have seen his face when his running surface stopped short, screamed a god-awful shriek, and burst into flames.