Stairmasters are stupid, and that is all.

Well, maybe that’s not all. But really. Just the name: Stair Master? Come On.

Ty is suffering from shin splints, so despite the sunny clear afternoon I went with Talley to the wreck center for my workout. She actually likes the freaky machine room. (Edit: Talley, after reading this, tells me she does not in fact like the freaky machine room. Her dedication to the freaky machine room is, therefore, just another sign of how Talley gets shit done that needs doing, like it or not. As she herself would say - and has said, on at least one occasion, to stunned softy northwesterners: Buck up, or get the fuck out of here.) Since the ellipticals were all booked we signed on for the stair machines. For half an hour I climbed hypothetical stairs while looking out a window at a big yellow sign that said “DEAD END.” No, really.

The Stairmaster encapsulates much of what I dislike about the whole idea of “working out:” it is completely contrived, whereas so much physical work in the world actually needs doing. And granted, it is not geographically possible for me to spend 45 minutes a day rebuilding homes in New Orleans. But the Stairmaster gets at the worst of it. The building I work in every day, after all, is full of actual stairs that conveniently connect one floor to the next. The Stairmaster reminds me of the year I worked for a woman on Park Avenue who would take a taxi five blocks to the gym.

In any case I “climbed” “stairs” for half an hour and now here I am back at my computer. Don’t spread this around, but I’m looking forward to the group run tomorrow morning. Not only will it actually involve moving through space, but it’s seven miles long. And, being both curious and impatient, I am anxious to see how it will feel.