As a New Yorker, I put up with a lot.
I put up with no green space at all. I put up with dead rats. Squashed rats. Live rats. I put up with dog shit literally everywhere. I put up with $100 Uber rides to airports, crowded crosstown buses that smell like KFC, and the fun hometown newspaper I used to enjoy turning flat-out MAGA.
I put up with stolen packages. Junkies scowling at me for being in their corner of the park. The smell of marijuana and K2 floating into my lungs. I put up with bodegas that stink of rat poison and kitty litter. I put up with pulling down a container of Clorox Wipes with no price tag at any given aforementioned bodega, taking it to the register, asking how much it costs, actually watching greed conspire on the proprietor’s face as he makes up a price, and being told—drumroll please—$15 (actual, Google-able retail price? $5.59.)
I put up with classes at New York locations Barry’s Bootcamp costing $40. And SO MUCH MORE.
All this being said? I’m happy in 2026. I’m peaceful. I’m great.
That is…as long as the treadmill in my building works.
All I need is for the fucking treadmill in my building to work.
I JUST.
NEED.
MY FUCKING BUILDING TREADMILL.
TO WORRRRRRRRRRRK.
A SHITTY WORKING TREADMILL (FOR WHICH I PAY A FOUR-FIGURE MONTHLY CONDO FEE, BTW)—THAT’S THE ONLY THING I NEED.
*****
My usual caveat: it’s all good if you don’t work out. I am a sedentary houseplant of a freakishly assiduous full-time writer. Only hardcore movement sets me free from editing trances, in which I stay frozen for literally five hours at a time. Combined with my morning 300 milligrams of Wellbutrin (I doubled up from 150 without consulting a doctor, LOL), that incomparably sweet, panting, nauseous, peel-my-soaking-wet-sports-bra-off 5K run that I do 5 days a week before lunch (in addition to low impact, strength and sculpting workouts I do later in the day) is a HUGE component of my way-better-than-ever mental health.
But guess what. The fucking treadmill broke again. It broke while I was on it. It sputtered to a halt. I was screwed. The timing could not have been worse. It was days before a historic New York City blizzard.
The storm hit Sunday night.
This was no ordinary snow, my dears. It was different than any I’d ever seen in New York—it moved sideways, and was wet and intense and wild, not a pretty “winter wonderland” vibe at all. Alarms went off twice on my phone as the mayor declared an emergency for the city and banned cars until Monday at noon. I could barely see out my window for like ten straight hours.
I wouldn’t be able to run outside—or even walk outside—which is obviously always the broken-treadmill back-up plan. For a whole week!
But...somehow, I still worked out every single day. Here’s my customized blizzard-with-a-broken-treadmill MY WEEK IN WORKOUTS fitness diary. It’s 90% YouTube, with all of my favorite videos included. Let’s go!
*****
MONDAY
Woke up at 7:30 AM and it was still snowing. I called Barry’s NoHo while I was still in bed. No answer. I checked ClassPass. Afternoon classes were still happening. I booked it for 3 PM.
Sent a snappy “happy blizzard”-themed treadmill repair request email to my management—since they never wrote me back last time.
At 11:40 AM, Barry’s emailed: they cancelled class. Goddammit.
Worked until 1 PM. Then I did an old favorite, the 35-minute
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