We officially have become THOSE people.

That is to say, we now have a treadmill. In our house. And I am pleased to say, there is no laundry hanging from it.

Yet.

So far, it has been used as an actual treadmill. Not often, mind you, but we have put a few miles on it since it arrived at our door.

At some point, we will move it out of the living room, where it now serves as a lovely accent piece. There has been talk about storing it in the guest room, but I fear that would render it obsolete. If you put something behind a closed door in our house, it might as well be on the moon. Out of sight, out of mind.

Thing is, I have to do something.

True story: I recently was wearing a dress vest that fit nicely back in, well … the 1990s. It was a great look, a “thirtysomething” vibe challenging a new century with novelty ties and penny loafers. Now into the 2020s, that vest is now a LITTLE snug around the belly, and as I sat down, my girth pushed the vest to its limits and launched a button across the room.

I have been a scrawny twig of a human all my life. I was able to wear boys’ sizes until the early 2000s. If it had been up to me, I would have worn Garanimals to our wedding.

When my parents dropped me off at college in 1986, my mom told me through teary eyes, “Eat your vegetables. It’s what kept you thin.” I remembered thinking, “Really? That’s it? If I stopped eating vegetables, I would not be scrawny anymore? Look out pizza and beer. Here comes Schwarzenschlenker.”

Despite my best efforts to eat horribly, I remained a beanstalk. At one point, I bought a big vat of weight-gain powder and a gallon of whole milk. I lugged it into our dorm room and chugged the mix with my roommates cheering me on — “Chug, chug, chug!”

It was like drinking cottage cheese, and the effect was spectacularly ineffective.

Yet I always figured proportional weight would fall on me at some point, and I was anxious for middle age to pad out my tiny freak-show limbs. But I also liked ice cream and Vienna sausages and peanut butter and beer, which means weight does not go directly to my biceps or pecs.

I started gaining weight about 15 years ago, but it is not the even distribution I envisioned. My wrists, arms, legs and ankles remained shoestring thin, but my belly and neck grew. I looked like a pregnant Q-tip.

I am at the age when I look in the mirror and jump at the craggy troll staring back at me — a homicidal maniac in my bathroom, a bloated soul searching the damp emptiness for his lost vest button. I then flee to the comfort of ice cream or pizza or a big bowl of Crisco.

Now we have a treadmill.

I know the odds are against us. I have seen too many friends with lonely treadmills in timeout, but I have a good feeling about this year. That troll has scared me for the last time, and I am running out of buttons.

Plus: The treadmill has cupholders for my beer.

Bring it, 2026.