At 12:00 AM on January 1^st, people of all shapes and sizes across the world stood up and proclaimed, “This year, I will go to the gym more often.”

At 6:00 PM on January 3^rd, there was not a single treadmill available at Work Out World.

I would be a hypocrite if I were mad about that. It had been my New Year’s resolution as well. But, I had been making a substantial effort to attend the gym more often even before the ball dropped, so in a way I felt cheated.

Having long since joined and attended the gym, but bitching and moaning all the way, did I deserve the right to a treadmill more than someone who had no delusions about fitness before last Monday? No, certainly not. I didn’t have any more rights than anyone else there, new member or regular.

Of course, I wouldn’t call myself a regular. Even though I’ve been able to maintain my target attendance rate for a few weeks now, calling me a regular was like calling Paris Hilton a celebrity. Oh sure, she’s at the parties, but what does she really do?

Luckily, the problem wasn’t as evident when I went Saturday. But that raises another interesting question. If it was 60 degrees and sunny out, why was I looking to use a treadmill? I think it’s funny that I hadn’t even considered that question until I was in the car, and even then I dismissed it immediately. Jog, like, outside? Ha! Right. There are, like, bears outside.

Ultimately, I could argue that I needed to go to the gym anyway to use the weightlifting machines. I can’t picture any real world activity that would emulate what those machines do for me. Maybe if I was trapped under a log, which I had to lift 10 times in a row to escape. Of if I had to pull myself onto a moving train in sets of 3. Perhaps if I wanted to clap for my favorite band on stage, but there were two 8-year-olds clinging to each arm.

Have you ever felt attached to something that is completely without emotional value? I’m not talking about a teddy bear, or a book written by someone you know. I’m talking about a chair, a computer chair that I’ve had. I’ve just had it. I wasn’t sitting in it when the towers fell. It wasn’t a gift from a deceased relative. It’s just a chair. A chair I have been sitting in. A place for my ass.

I’ve just put my old computer chair out by the dumpster. In a way, I hope someone takes it before the garbage truck comes later this week. Not that it’s in very good condition; it’s missing screws and had a chronic squeak that can’t be fixed. But I hope someone takes it because I don’t want to look at it out there. Seeing outside by the dumpster makes me feel like I’m walking around naked.

Why would I be attached to it? It’s just a chair, and an old, overused one at that. I suppose the fact that it still looks like it’s in good condition makes me feel like I’m wasting it. But, anyone who takes a look at the underside will see there are some parts missing (broken off and lost). And if anyone sits in it, they will hear a creak that they may think could be fixed with WD-40, but they will be wrong, because the squeak is inside the very mechanism that attaches the seat to the base, like the support itself is warping. It is a squeak in the very soul of the chair.

I hope it doesn’t rain.

ARG! Shut up, it’s just a chair!