I hate the treadmill.
If our ancestors knew that we pay money to walk in place on a large, loud machine they would think the world had gone to hell in a handbasket.
(I love to use that phrase. I feel like it is very 1950ish of me. Also…everyone has been saying the world is going to hell in a handbasket for a good 75 years, so the punch said phrase is meant to deliver has lost a bit of its flare. )
Despite my hatred for the treadmill, I climb on the one at my gym every morning around 5am. I select a machine situated by the TV showing the local news, pop in my headphones, cue up a playlist, and start that ol treadmill moving.
Just like the days of yore.
Except my ancestors were likely hiking up a hill to fetch the morning eggs rather than walking in place on a mindless machine.
I hate the treadmill, but I love food and being able to fit into my current wardrobe, so I walk and run every morning.
The deal with this is just a year ago I could not run. Two years ago, I could barely walk. My time spent on the treadmill always reminds me how far I have come since the days after my surgeries and I am thankful for this mindless task I can perform at the gym each morning.
Because of these surgeries, I have become part of a unique club. I was actually a member of this club my whole life and never really knew it or understood my fellow members. This unique club is comprised of individuals like me: people born with cerebral palsy and living life with the effects of a disability. Through the wonders of social media, I am part of several Facebook groups in which I get to interact with others in this club. I see videos daily of kids who are rocking life as they fight for steps or sometimes even simple movements. I have met adults who although they share a CP diagnosis, they are moving mountains and not letting a physical disability slow them down in any way.
And so daily I get on that treadmill and I walk and run for those members in this club who unfortunately cannot do the same.
Seeing these individuals on a daily basis through Facebook and through their videos has made me painfully aware of something in our culture. It is the use of the word “lame.”
I have never used the word myself because it hit just a bit too close to home.
And quite honestly it faded from popular vernacular for a bit.
However, it has found its way back into mainstream vocabulary and I find it disturbing.
Thankfully we have reached a point when the majority of society has stopped using the words “retarded” or “gay” in a derogatory manner. We are fighting to end racial slurs and prejudices. As a whole, we have come to understand that when you use a word that represents a group of people as a way to explain something as being “stupid” or bad, you are insulting said group of people.
It is mean. It is hateful. It is unnecessary.
As a culture, it is time to add a new word to this list of words sitting in degrogatory banned camp. That word is “lame,” my friends. When something or someone is lame, that means he/she cannot walk. It does not mean that he/she is stupid or dumb or undesirable.
It simply means that an individual cannot walk.
Fortunately our society has graduated past the belief that disabilities define the person, rendering those with such issues as useless to the good of the whole. This advanced mindset should also spill over when we consider using words whose correct meaning explain race or maladies as a way to denote something bad that is going on in our lives at the moment.
If you are using such words or phrases, I implore you to take a minute to think of their true meaning and then apply that to how you are using the words in your everyday speak.
Then ask yourself how you would feel if a large portion of our society began using your name in a derogatory manner.
“That is so Sarah that you forgot to set the DVR.”
“That show is soooo Sarah. I cannot stand it.”
“Stop being so Sarah. You are getting on my nerves.”
(*Apologies to all Sarahs. It was simply the first name that popped into my head. There is a reason I write nonfiction as opposed to fiction: I am horrible at developing characters’ names.)
Not so fun, is it?
I am stepping off my soapbox now and climbing back onto the treadmill. That Valentines Day candy isn’t going to burn itself off my hips.
Be blessed, friends. Put love out there and not hurtful, mindless speak.