The Treadmills

Jenn spotted the treadmills. Safe, simple, familiar. At least she thought so.

Sliding onto the belt of a far-off treadmill, Jenn hit “Quick Start” and began walking. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. She even bumped up the speed a little. Her stride quickened, her heart thudded, and she even started to feel athletic.

Then she noticed the college girl two treadmills over, jogging effortlessly like she was born on a track team. Jenn upped her speed again, refusing to be outdone. That was her first mistake.

Her second mistake was looking down.

Her shoelace flopped too close to the belt, and in her attempt to avoid disaster, Jenn stepped awkwardly. Her foot missed the rhythm, the treadmill yanked her backward. She landed on her ass but the machine wasn’t done with her yet. The moving belt kept churning, and Jenn’s leggings, old and traitorous, began to peel downward like a banana skin.

“No, no, no!” Jenn squeaked, clawing at the waistband, but the treadmill had her in its grip. With a final tug, the machine managed what no diet ever had: it stripped her pants clean off.

Jenn scrambled backward on the floor, bare thighs squeaking against the polished rubber mat. Her leggings were still half-eaten by the treadmill, the fabric flapping like a surrender flag.