After two bottles of wine last night, I decided that going to the gym sounded like a good idea.

I don’t think I had enough cognitive power to actually have a reason for this decision. I was just following some strange instinct, lacing up my Nike Airs and walking over to the gym on Third Ave., stopping to have a cigarette and seeing absolutely no irony in it.

Once on the treadmill I felt a little unstable, but mostly fantastic. I began to feel as though I was cleansing myself of all those alcoholic toxins. I was an Athletic Person who cared about her body. I was a Picture of Fitness.

In the throes of my deluded health-fantasy, I pulled off my t-shirt, threw it to the ground and kept jogging in only my sports bra.

Obviously, this was the moment in which I should have taken a figurative step back and realized that I was far too drunk to be using any sort of exercise equipment. But at the moment, all I could think was Goddamn I am HOT. And man, I can run FAST.

This bliss couldn't last long. Soon enough I lost my footing, and began fumbling for the red emergency STOP button. The button was either broken or my hand-eye coordination was woefully impaired. Either way, the treadmill kept going. I managed to stay on through a series of strange movements that were too mad and desperate to be called running.

It was clearly time to abandon ship and jump onto one of the sides of the treadmill. Unfortunately, this move resulted in me falling off the treadmill in a complex series of motions that included banging into the sidebars and kneeling on the running surface.

I sprang up from the floor where I had fallen, my fight or flight response kicking in, and ran (at approximately the same pace I had been running on the treadmill) out of the gym.

Today I have a headache and a large purple bruise on one arm as well as the both pleasing and annoying knowledge that I cannot go back to the gym for at least a month, possibly ever.