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The Treadmill

by Jim Harrington

I am not vain. Certainly not like that Milt Jensen down at the bank, who wears those expensive-looking suits and slicks his hair back. And, God forgive me, not like Edna Mae Rounders strutting down the center aisle of the church wearing those god awful dresses. It’s bad enough they could sleep six, but those bright colors make a guy’s eyes water.

Nor am I like Marty Pierson who drives that fancy, foreign car. Probably bought it cause he thought other folks would be impressed. Me, I drive a ten year old Chevy. Did have to get those pock marks fixed after the hail storm, but the engine runs fine.

I do not live in a house because it’s in the “right neighborhood,” and I do not need plastic surgery to make me feel better about myself. Not like Rachel whats-her-name down at the post office. It’ll take more than bigger breasts or removing a mole to make either of us one of the beautiful people.

And to be clear, I am on this treadmill everyday because it’s good for my heart, not because my five-year-old grandson asked his mother if grandpa is pregnant.

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