Back when I was a junior in high school, I took an aptitude test called the ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery), mainly to get out of regular class but also pretty intrigued by the whole aptitude testing results. Side note – I had absolutely 0 plans to join the armed services, so that’s interesting (I just googled it though and ASVAB does have a Career Exploration Program so I guess that’s what we were doing at the good old Manteo High). An aptitude test is “designed to determine a person’s ability in a particular skill or field of knowledge” according to the Oxford Dictionary. I basically thought it was going to tell me what I was supposed to be when I grew up because I had no earthly idea. Good news, I still have no idea and supposedly I’m grown now. It was broken down into different sections to test your knowledge. For example, there was a mechanical portion on this test. You may be wondering what, pray tell, my score was on the mechanical portion. I’ll tell you. It was a 0. I got 0 questions right. I have 0 skills in any kind of mechanical machine machinations. ZERO. There was another section also, closely related to that of the mechanical persuasion, on which I got a 2. There’s just a brain malfunction here. I should probably qualify for some kind of special something.

Anyway, I’m telling you that to tell you this. My treadmill died mid run last week. There I am, trotting along on my daily mile (no more, no less, that’s all I can run. I enjoy running as much as I enjoy mechanical tasks. Equally as good at it, too) and it just stops. Mid stride. I almost flew off the back (maybe a touch dramatic). I just stood there for a minute. Staring. Dumbfounded. Thinking I accidentally pulled the emergency stop even though I can see plain as day that it is, in fact, still inserted in its little emergency stop tab. Then I’m thinking the breaker has been flipped even though nothing else in the garage has stopped running. (Keep in mind that ZERO!!). That wasn’t it. Then I unplug it and replug it in. Then I kick it. Obviously. Turn it off and back on. Do the replugging bit. Off and back on again. Nada. Dead. Reminding me of Ash. So I decided maybe it just needs some lube. I love a problem that can be solved with some heavy lubing. I get to the business of lathering the stick spongy thingy and greasing her up. Try all my tricks again. Nothing. Still dead. Then I break out the screwdriver, take the cover off to all the computery stuff and vacuum it, thinking maybe just some dust is gunning up the motor or some other part I know nothing about. Nope. Still dead. I kick it again for good measure. Nothing. Except a lot of tears from me.

Now, you’re probably thinking, ummm Kellie, just run outside you dumb twit. And I agree. But no thank you. My run is a private endeavor in my garage with 2 fans blowing on me, my music turned all the way up and nobody looking at me. Not that anyone would be looking at me, but in my own head, I like to keep my run to myself. I don’t look like some wild gazelle naturally born for speed. More like a mucked up pig naturally born for rolling around in my own shit. Running is and always will be a private, indoor activity for me.

In other devastating news, my dead treadmill was a Valentine’s gift from my dead husband 13 years ago (to be clear, he was not dead 13 years ago). That’s right, he noticed my mucked up pig like stature and decided to really add some romance to our lives by discreetly suggesting I move my ass. I kid. He did not think any of that. Not that he said out loud anyway. That was my own voice talking in my head. She’s such a bitch, my brain. But what, at the time, I thought was one of the worst gifts ever, was actually the best gift ever. And she gave me a good run (hahaha see what I did there? I’m so punny!), as well she should have with as much as she cost. And honestly, once Ash kicked the bucket, I did not take care of her the way he did. She was not lubed regularly. She was not cleaned nearly enough. She lived in the garage with the spiders and sometimes snakes. Just wholly neglected. So my own damn fault. Beginning to think that treadmill and I have a lot in common…

As you may have guessed, I ordered a new one. Not one nearly as nice as Ash had gotten me, but a decent one. It was delivered today around 4 pm. So much for that 12-2 delivery window. Delivery men and weather men, never accurate, always employed. I’ve been working on assembling it ever since. Ash used to always quote Henry Ford “whether you think you can or whether you think you can’t – you’re right.” Meaning everything is a mind set. So I took the mindset that I could put this treadmill together all by myself. Please note, the first page of the instructions say “This is a 2 person job”. But surely they didn’t mean me. I can do anything. Bad ass assembling pioneer don’t need nothing from no one woman.

Ummm, no I can’t. I can’t do lots of shit. I can’t do most shit. And that’s not thinking I can or can’t, there are just some things that I cannot do. Hello ZERO. I have never been good at assembling anything of any kind. I know that about myself. Yet somehow today I thought it would be different. I just got out of the shower. It’s 9 pm. I’ve been steadily working on putting that mother fucking thing together for almost 5 hours, aside from a short dinner break. I am still not done. I may have a concussion from dropping the monitor on my fucking head because attaching the monitor was a 2 PERSON JOB (also, when the monitor “fell”, the wire from the pulse monitor that was attached to the base of the treadmill completely ripped. At least I’m hoping it’s just the pulse monitor. Probably I broke the whole fucking thing because I’m a stubborn dumb ass). Eventually I called my oldest son in to help. Unfortunately, I believe he takes after me in the mechanical aptitude ineptitude department. It was the blind leading the blind. Only someone blind probably would have done better than us. Eventually I gave up, threw some shit, cursed a lot and burst into tears. I texted my mommy like the little bitch baby I am and told her how I suck at everything, I might have a concussion, I can’t stop crying and I smell like 4 day old tacos. A real proud moment.

I guess I needed that cry. Life is really hard for all of us. We can’t do everything by ourselves. It’s moments like those when I realize how lucky I was to have Ash, how well we balanced each other out and how fucking hard it can be without him.

I guess my point is, if I have one, is to embrace who you are. Strive to be better. Accept what you cannot change. Appreciate the people that love you and constantly show up. And, obviously, try not to suck.

By the way, according to the ASVAB, I would have made a great funeral director. I guess I’ve always been just a little bit dead inside. Ha!