Helga

Have I ever mentioned that Saint Rob does the cooking? I, who love to cook, have darn near forgotten how. We get banana pancakes for breakfast, and all sorts of yummy concoctions for dinner. He is the king of the barbeque, and even better at creating a three course meal from the dregs of the fridge. Where I see Tabasco sauce, pickle relish, and a lonely pita pocket, he somehow makes quesadillas and a salad.

While this is a fabulous skill, much appreciated by me generally, it is not so appreciated by my skinny jeans. While I’ve been eating, my skinny jeans have simultaneously been embracing Adkins, South Beach, Nutrisystem, and Jenny Craig.

What began as a minor difference of opinion between my tummy and the snap on the skinny jeans post-dryer, has become over the summer, an all out war between my favorite Lucky Brands and my hips, thighs and posterior region.

About three weeks ago, with the battle raging out of hand, I decided to call for back-up. Enter Helga. The fitness center about five miles from our house retains the services of a personal trainer who specializes in working with out of shape, middle-aged blobs. Helga is a Nordic looking blue-eyed blond who could almost be called cute except she weighs about as much as my pinkie, and bench presses her jeep Wrangler for warm-ups.

So, three times per week I go spend an hour with Helga. At the beginning of the hour, I like Helga. She’s the perfect trainer, very knowledgeable, always changing the exercises, explaining that soon, if I work hard, I will be able to bench press my bicycle. By the end of the hour, I find that Helga is not so cute, and I wanna see her do 45 seconds of Desert Lizards across the gym floor after first doing medicine ball lunges for two minutes. For the fourth time.

I hadn’t really noticed much change yet. The scale hasn’t really budged. But I must say that in my recent overwhelmed, stressed out state, I DO feel better mentally after my hour with Helga. So if nothing else, exercise does help depression and anxiety. Make me the poster child for the gym! The before picture can show me in my post-work coma. The after picture can show me with sweat trickling into my eyes sucking on a G2 and doubled over panting, too busy trying to breathe to worry about any other paltry inconveniences.

And then, today, the Lucky Brands went on without argument. Snug, yes, but no need for the Pants Dance to get them buttoned! Hooray!

Helga’s real name is Kim. Guess I’m going to have to start being nicer.