Sometimes you need just the right inspiration.

This morning I woke up dragging. I made my way in the dark to let the dogs out and, as I passed our spare-room-that-is-supposed-to-be-an-office-but-we-outgrew-it-long-ago, there came an evil, malevolent sound.

Siiiiiisiiiiiiigeeeee, it growled.

I peeked in the room and there it loomed, dark and hulking like a sleeping beast: Treadmill.

“I have to let the dogs out,” I said hurriedly.

I’ll be seeing you laaaaateerrrrrr…

“I don’t know,” I said, heading for Topper’s crate. “I’ve got an awful lot to do today. You know, Dirtman is out of town and I’m the only adult around here and there’s all these socks on the floor…”

I’ll be waaaaiting, Siiiiiisssiggggeeeeee…

I let the dogs out, made the coffee and breakfast, refereed yet another senseless argument between the Heirs, kicked them out the door and sat down to my own breakfast. Heir 2’s favorite cereal, Big Box ‘o Sugar Crap, (purchased during the skiing trip as a treat, but made to last) beckoned me from the cabinet. I fully intended to capitulate.

You’re looking decidedly flabby this morning.

Damn! It was the cereal I bought for myself at the beginning of the week when I decided to take advantage of my new-found ability to exercise.

You know, once you start eating that sugary junk, you lack the moral fiber to stop, said Tiny Overpriced Box of Compacted Straw.

I yanked it off the shelf, poured myself a bowl, splashed on some milk, and…

Put the sugar down.

Breakfast grudgingly dispensed with, I sat down at the computer to read everyone’s blogs get some work done.

Siiiiisssiiiiiiigeeeeee

“I’m busy.”

Laaaaaard Buuuuuuutttttt…

Zsa Zsa sat down next to me and nudged and nudged and nudged my arm.

“Do something about that rude sound coming out of the spare room, Dah-ling,” she complained. “I’m trying to do my yoga.”

“Just ignore it. It’ll shut up eventually.”

“But it’s right, Lard Butt.”

So there I was, dressed out in workout clothes, trying to get up the enthusiasm for 45 minutes of discomfort and sweat. My only solace is to pick what to listen to while submitting to Treadmill’s tortuous pace. I’d started with the soundtrack from Chicago, which worked pretty well, but didn’t last long enough and the number Cell Block Tango makes the opposite sex around here decidedly nervous (“You know, some men just can’t hold their arsenic…”). The next two days I’d listened to Louis Prima, nice and jazzy, but some of the songs with Keely Smith start out very slow.

It was time to break out the secret CD stash; the CDs you don’t want anyone to know you own, usually copies of ones you had on albums growing up. And there it was, the perfect workout CD, the CD that will propel me from a puffy, bloated Oompah Loompah to a healthy, fit Oompah Loompah.

Electric Light Orchestra.

Yes. It’s true. I have a CD by Electric Light Orchestra.

Roll your eyes, you may. But as soon as I turned it on I couldn’t help but feel jumpy. And when “Mr. Blue Sky” came on, I had wings on my heels.

You’re awfully happy this morning, Treadmill rumbled.

“Mr. Blue Sky, please tell us why, you had to hide away for so long (so long), where did we go wrong…”

Shall we try a little faster?

“Hey there Mr. Blue, we’re so pleased to be with you, look around see what you do, everybody smiles at you…”

How about another five minutes?

“Mr. Blue, now get it right, but soon come Mr. Night, creeping over, now his hand is on you shoulder, never mind, we’ll remember you this, we’ll remember you this WAY…”

You think you ought to pace yourself, maybe. Slower, do a cool down…

“Mr. Blue Sky, please tell us why…”

Stop already! You’re breakin’ my belt!

“Oh. Sorry.”

I got off the treadmill and walked into the kitchen. This is usually when the food in the cabinets is at its noisiest, calling my name seductively. But there was silence.

“It’s the endorphins released by all the exercies, Dah-ling,” Zsa Zsa assured me. “It keeps the food quiet.”

“The endorphins?” I asked her. “You knew this, but you never told me?”

“Don’t be absurd, Dah-ling. Why would you listen to a dog?”