I've noticed a disturbing trend of late. The exercise bike I purchased for all the right reasons — to inject some heart-healthy cardiovascular exercise into my day, to help me attain the inner peace and tranquility that comes with regular exercise, because it was on sale — has turned into an expensive and not very comfortable couch. I do not feel good about this. To wit: I recently found myself sitting on it, not pedaling, watching "Say Yes to the Dress" on my iPad with tears streaming down my face.

It hasn't always been this way. When I first got the bike, I'd set the timer for an hour and then ride it for an hour. It was glorious. It went exactly how it was supposed to go. At this point the bike was set up in the living room and for distraction while riding, I'd watch TV or listen to the radio. Then, in preparation for houseguests arriving, we moved the bike into the office, lest our friends and family get wise to the fact we're exercising and run out and buy a bike of their own to get in shape faster than we would.

I thought I'd hate having the bike in the office because we don't have a TV in the office — whatever would I do to pass the time while riding? But it turned out that I loved it. The proximity to my desk made me feel like I was able to get work done and exercise at the same time. Instead of taking a break from working to commit a full hour to exercise, as I'd been doing when the bike was in the living room, now I could grab whatever I was planning to peruse at my desk (a quick glance at the action piles here would suggest I was planning to peruse old envelopes with notes scribbled on them, a box of thumb tacks, dog treats, business cards, a photo from a friend's son's "Call of Duty"-themed Bar Mitzvah, 8,000 Post-it notes, bottle caps, a nail file and an old iPhone case) and instead peruse it on the bike. Now I was really maximizing my productivity! Instead of wasting time at my desk and calling it work, I could waste that same time on the bike and call it work plus exercise. I was beginning to understand why celebrities like Jimmy Kimmel install a treadmill-desk in their office.

So that was going swimmingly — the tight buns were nearly in reach and my fiance was pretending he wasn't distracted by the reflection in his computer screen of someone in his periphery huffing and puffing and reading envelopes. But then I made an upsetting discovery: I can't think and move at the same time. I'd actually realized this a while ago, but forgotten. When I'm walking and talking on my cell phone and someone asks me a question that requires some thought, I have to stand still to answer. It doesn't really bother me, but it does bother the people directly behind me and the people I'm walking with. Well, suddenly, I found myself on the bike, checking my emails and holding still when I'd get one I had to think about. For me, apparently, thought is the enemy of motion. No wonder stupid people love fitness!

But all of this wouldn't be a problem if the timer on the bike kept going whether I was pedaling or not. Then I could just cheat myself of the benefits of exercise but be in and out in an hour. Instead, the bike pauses while I pause, so an hour of exercise takes months.

And this was before I realized the best way to pass time on the bike, and also with friends and family, while watching TV and during conversations, is to play a diabolical game called "Candy Crush." Now I hop on the bike, set it for an hour, begin playing "Candy Crush" and stop pedaling within the first five minutes. If this keeps up, I will spend 2014 trying to complete an hour I set on the bike before Thanksgiving 2013.

I guess the answer is to just set a kitchen timer. Obviously.

Hear more from Alison Rosen on her podcast, "Alison Rosen Is Your New Best Friend" or on the immensely popular "Adam Carolla Show" podcast. Follow her on Twitter @alisonrosen or visit her website at www.alisonrosen.com. To find out more about Alison Rosen and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.