I’m going to assume you know what multi-tasking is.
(Ya’ll remember what Benny Hill used to say about the word “assume”? It makes an “ass” out of “u” and “me.” Get it? That shit together spells the word assume.)
(I used to stay up late and watch Benny Hill when I was like 11. I wasn’t allowed to. But I did.)
(And still love that little-old-short-bald-creepy dude.)
(Don’t tell mom.)
(About me watching. Not about the little-old-short-bald-creepy dude.)
First conversation out of the box this morning at the work joint was started by a co-worker.
(Who is bald. Just not short. Or old. Or creepy. For the most part.)
He said he read somewhere that some really-advanced-in-the-workforce companies are considering/thinking about/contemplating having the option of treadmills at the office.
Not in a gym at the office.
At. The. Office.
Like, behind the keyboard.
You can do the treadmill all day while you just type away, answer the phone, schedule crap and so forth.
Now. Hear me out.
I loathe exercise. I’m talking hate. To the core.
But I do it. As little as possible. But I do it.
Because if I didn’t, my arms would be too short to reach around my boobs-turned-into-total-front-side and click on this keyboard.
So, I walk/run periodically.
That is now on my agenda of requests of my boy boss.
(My nieces used to ask if my boss was a ‘boy’ or a ‘girl’. So, he knows he is known as my ‘boy boss.’)
Anyway, people. Stay on track here.
I will be requesting a treadmill for my she-cave.
He ain’t gonna do it. But that ain’t gonna stop the requests.
I still ask for a porta-potty and he’s been saying “NO” for the last 4 years now. Yet, I continue to ask. I will wear that boy boss DOWN one day.
Can you imagine?
I would be freaking HOT if I walked on a treadmill ALL day while I worked.
And I ain’t talking “‘sweaty hot”, I’m talking “bust a move” hot.
(Then we’d have to change up the dress code.)
(Cause I ain’t walking all day on a treadmill and getting all hot-looking just to cover it up under suits. I mean, come ON.)
I don’t even know how many calories that would burn. I’m bad at anything with numbers though.
(Like, don’t even ask my address. Because it has numbers in it. My neighbors have brought over crap I had sent to them by mistake.)
The word calories would be totally deleted from my brain. They would no longer exists, really. The word OR the actual thing.
I could eat cake for breakfast. A corner. Cause it has that extra frosting.
Ding Dongs for lunch.
Or Twinkies, depending on my mood.
A whole dozen donuts for a snack.
Hell, my WHOLE DAY could be ONE BIG SNACK.
I would no longer need a Xanax because a fool asked me some asinine question I’ve already answered 17 times and my tolerance level is at “murder.”
I would no longer need my 5-Hour Energy because my metabolism would be on “bust a move” for 8 hours a day.
The fat cats in government could quit bitching about everybody being overweight and stop trying to tell us what and how to eat.
Kids would know they need to step it up and put down that joystick because there ain’t no joysticks in the workplace.
(I know joysticks are ancient. Work with me here, folks. I’m on a roll.)
I really think this might not be a bad idea.
I would totally do it.
It’s a win-win for everyone.
And if typing/answering phones/conducting meetings/glaring at co-workers all while busting it out at 3.5 on an incline isn’t multi-tasking…
I DON’T KNOW WHAT IS.