It is no secret that I hate running.

In fact, I’m sure some of you are already tired of hearing it but it’s important to this story. It’s getting easier to run now that I’ve been forcing myself these past few weeks. I groggily wake up to the alarm at 6:15 am or to my husband putting his hand on my shoulder and gently asking “Do you want to go to the gym?” I answer with “No” but I get up anyway.

The last three times that I’ve gone by myself, I have found someone already on the only treadmill in our building’s gym so I get on the stationary bike instead. Not a big deal except that the guy on the treadmill is the tiny guy that has been complaining ever since we rented the parking spot next to his. We rent it from the building and he claims that his spot is too narrow and expects that the building should never rent the middle spot so he can park widely for free. I’m not sure why he has the audacity to think he’s entitled to entertain that ridiculous expectation but it’s the sign of the times I guess.

It was a big stink. The petite man is only a renter, so the real owner of the unit and parking spot, took his beef to the board and all kinds of accusations of special treatment and threats of lawsuits were brought up to try to force us out. That was a year ago and the Mini remains parked smack dab in its spot.

In spite of winning the mutiny attempt, I don’t like walking into the gym when this diminutive man is on my preferred machine.

I don’t like running and I don’t like waking up early. Today, I set my alarm for 6 am to claim the treadmill. He wasn’t there this morning but that goes to show you to what lengths I am willing to go.

Clearly, I’m a much bigger bitch than is my hatred for running.

Maybe that’s no secret either.