So, I've decided to catapult into the year 2000 or so by actually listing something on Craigslist. I have this Elliptical Trainer that sits about five feet away from me when I work in the basement, and we basically haven't used it since, oh, 2001, or so. We bought it in 2000 and both the old lady and I were pretty elliptically gung-ho for a good year or so. Then we realized that we're FUCKING OLD and that, if we kept our low-impact training up much longer, our knees would explode. That's about when the old lady discovered walking on the treadmill and I discovered doing nothing. Then, about three years later, I discovered swimming.
My knees have been fucked ever since I ran the high hurdles in high school (and in college, for a week, until I realized that instead of running, I could get drunk, get baked, and have constant sex.) I was an okay hurdler, mainly because I was about 6 foot 100 and I weighed, as I do now, about 130 pounds. I won a few races, got some ribbons and shit, but mostly I succeeded in smacking my right knee into waist-high wooden boards every day for two years. And when I wasn't doing that, my coach had me in the workout room, working on this goddamn machine called "The Leaper," which should've been called "The Fuck Up Your Knee-er." Seriously, I couldn't even find a picture of this torture device online because I'm sure the dickheads who invented it were hunted down, drawn and quartered and then burned alive, by an angry, crawling mob.
Basically, you stood on a platform and crouched under these big pads that were attached to ONE-MILLION POUNDS. Then you'd straighten your legs, forcing the one-million pounds up, and then you'd crouch back down again. Then you'd repeat that process for 20 hours or so. I remember this thing made a noise like, "KREEEEEEEPNNGGGHHH!" Actually, that might have been the sound of my cartilage turning to a fine dust -- I'm not quite sure. Whatever it was, I feel like suing someone right about now. Fuckers.
So, yeah, we don't use the elliptical thing and I posted it up on Craigslist today. So far, I've gotten two e-mails, and it looks like some folks might be coming by this weekend to take a look-see. Pretty fucking cool. I'm starting to look around this shithole to see what other dreck I can unload. I wonder if anyone would buy my 8-Track collection? Or my old computer monitors. Or my tax documents dating back to 1997. Seriously, how long am I supposed to hold onto those fuckers? I made like eight dollars in '97. Why can I not throw anything away?
You guys get first crack at everything, though. Anyone want a broken fax machine? Twenty bucks. Sequined jockstrap I wore while stripping on a roof, freshman year for a friend? Twelve-fifty. All of my English themes from 6th grade? A dollar. OOH! Look at what I just found!
See, that's why I don't throw anything away. I loved that game. That does it -- I'm not selling shit. It's all going back into the boxes. Don't touch my crap! Get out of my basement! Go on, SCRAM!