I’d barely slid open my junk drawer when I saw the receipt with the purple paper clip. If shame had a color, it would be purple. I’d bought a treadmill in the hopes of burning off a few calories. I’d managed to get it out of the box, but my joint and back pain had kept me from doing more. The only thing I used the machine for was hanging my robe on the handlebars.
I was tired of it all. The incurable condition I’d lived with since childhood. The surgeries and treatments I’d endured. More meds than I could count, which packed on impossible-to-lose pounds. I didn’t want that treadmill taking up space in my house any longer, reminding me that my body had defeated me. That it was useless to hope for a pain-free, active life. I wrestled the machine into the trunk of my car and headed to the store. There was aregister announced that refunds were prorated based on date of purchase.
