"Just let go, Samantha!"
The Tryping My Best Moment of the Week #14
It’s July and it’s hot. And that means we’ve passed the end of the June subscription-based donation project. Thanks to new free and paid subscriptions, my donation to the National Center for Transgender Equality was $75. There were also three matching donors which means the total donation was $300.
And I am continuing on with the donation project. At the end of July, based on subscriptions, I’ll make a donation to Indigenous Women Rising. It’s nice to be able to feel like I’m making a little impact in this way so, if you are enjoying this newsletter, I’d love it if you could share and/or give it a social media shoutout. Share! Like! Comment! Please! I’m not desperate!
If you are new here (welcome!) or need a refresher, you can always find more details of the project on my About page.
And thank you, as always, for being here.
These days, I have been known to, occasionally, have Whose Line is it Anyway on in the background as I get ready for bed. And by “get ready for bed” I mean, lay in the dark playing solitaire on my phone like an old lady. During a round of Weird Newscasters on an episode I watched recently, Wayne Brady was tasked with delivering the sports while on a runaway treadmill. I laughed out loud. Cackled. Guffawed, if you will. Who would, in real life, fall off a treadmill in such a way? How would you even??
But wait…
“Just let go, Samantha!”
I grew up in a small house with an unfinished basement. And over the years, that basement was everything: office, pool hall, roller rink, arcade, wrapping paper storage, my dad’s electronics room with a bunch of stuff I shouldn’t touch, spiders’ playground, and, of course, a small make-shift gym. And that gym was really just a treadmill situated in-between a large wooden desk and an old floral loveseat.
Throughout my childhood, and life really, I’ve gone through periods where I have worked a bit harder to be whatever shape was deemed more culturally “attractive.” One of those times was probably when I was around ten years old. Eleven? Twelve? One of those ages. (Insert rant about 90s toxic diet culture and body standards on LITERAL CHILDREN and more ranting about continued unrealistic body indoctrination and so forth and so on until I pass out from forgetting to breathe.) I’m not particularly athletic, as I have mentioned in previous newsletters, so often these times of more aggressive movement also came with more aggressive injuries.
To set the scene: it’s the evening time, post-school, post-dinner. You know, around sitcom time. My Mom is downstairs in the dingy basement on the computer or watching something on the nearly dead tv. The front of the treadmill faces the center of the room and the tv while the back of it is nearly up against the wall. I amble down the stairs wearing basketball shorts and a maroon basketball team t-shirt emblazoned with the logo for the local Parks & Rec.
I saunter to the treadmill (do I ever just walk places? NO.) and get all set up. There was a plastic key you insert into the console to turn the thing on and that key was attached to a clip that should be hooked to your shirt. As a child who didn’t like to break rules, I dutifully attached the clip to my shirt, made sure it was secure and began my workout.
A problem I have, that I have continued to have as I’ve gotten older, is that I often push myself too hard at the beginning of whatever body movement, only to wear myself out nearly immediately and spend the rest of the workout limping along. This was no exception. There was a bit of walking, just a little bit, and then I upped the speed and went for a full run.
Honestly, I was moving along nicely, working up a little sweat, feeling “the burn” or whatever. And then, I trip. Yes, I trip. Probably on air because there was nothing else to get in my way.
The point of having the key attached to the shirt is so if you do fall, you will roll off the back of the treadmill, pulling the key out of the slot as you do, and stopping the rotating rubber surface that is now attacking you. In an ideal world, that is what happens. If you fall gracefully. And correctly.
I fell in neither of those ways. Instead of letting myself hit the ground and roll back, I grabbed onto the railing on either side of the treadmill and held on for dear life. So, the treadmill stayed moving at a fast pace while my legs dragged along behind me. My skin was being ripped from my knees (ew) and yet, I still clung to the safety of the railings. Finally, my mom, in her terror, yelled “Just let go, Samantha.” She may have even come over to the machine and pulled out the key herself. Who knows? What I do know is the treadmill finally stopped.
When I stood up, at least one of my knees was a bloody mess which, honestly, made me feel pretty cool. There wasn’t a lot in my life at that point that made me feel cool but, for some reason, an injury did that. (Something else to talk about in therapy I guess.) See, sometimes body movement isn’t for nothing. I had a new battle scar! Look at me go!
After that, I’m guessing, the treadmill and I took a break. It was in time-out. And I had scabs to pick at.
Well, that's all for now. So, until next week, sometimes breaking a rule will save you a skinned knee and keep on tryping your best.