surviving Helga

I'm always looking for something to get me excited
about exercising.
Because I really don't enjoy it. It's not my favorite.
I usually stick with videos.
But I thought I'd try something a little more challenging.
I talked my sister, Erica, into going to the gym with me
the last time she was down for a visit.
We went to a class called Boot Camp 24.
(Note to the exercise challenged - avoid classes
with the words turbo, power or boot attached to them.)
We arrived late. A little nervous. A little wary.
The women there were already working
with a variety of equipment.
Steps, weights, bars, etc.
They were yelling at the music. Getting pumped. Excited.
We almost left.
We should have.
But they beckoned us in and gave us our own equipment.
I think only then did I notice the instructor.
We called her Helga.
She looked like a viking princess from a Wagner opera.
She had long red hair and WWF biceps, but it was her thighs
that mesmerized us.
She could have crushed a small country with them.
Why in heaven's name did her thighs have to be so large?
What class could possibly require such musculature?
Panic set it. But we had our pride. The music pounded.
We lunged. We lifted. We balanced. We tried to keep up.
We faltered. We dehydrated. We wept a little.
Helga, with her Arnold legs, was relentless. She rocked our world.
Eventually, the hour mark passed. The class wound down.
Erica and I peeled ourselves off of the floor after cool down.
Helga's face looked a little pink...that was all.
I'm pretty sure she never broke a sweat.
We got out while we could, with our rubbery legs and sweaty hair.
It took us days to recover.
Helga lives large in our memories.
We still get a little scared when we talk about her.
But we also talk about that class with a gleam of pride.
We know we survived something big.
We survived Helga and her wonder thighs.