Helga hates America


So on Monday Helga introduced me to a sort of “modified burpee.”

If either of you is unfamiliar with the burpee, it is a hellish torment dreamed up by sadists to humiliate normal people.  Essentially one is obligated to squat (the obsession with squatting continues!), put one’s hands on the floor, throw one’s legs behind oneself to assume the push-up position, do an actual push-up, and then “explode into the air in a jump” (Helga’s own words!) at the gripping conclusion.

Yeah.  I’m 44 years old and have led a largely sedentary life (with occasional bursts of activity, unfortunately none recent).  There will be no exploding unless it is my aorta, or possibly one or both of my lungs.

So instead of an actual burpee, which not even Rambo could do without considerable amounts of methamphetamine, I was made to squat, place my hands on the floor, throw my legs out behind me, bring them back to the squat, and stand up.   Over and over again.  It was like being in hell except worse and with piped-in music.

Round Two of the burpee torture brought a modification, because as I said 44, sedentary, exploding lungs etc.  This time I was to squat, etc, put my legs out behind me one at a time, do a mini-push-up, and return to the squat and stand up.   I’m fairly sure that Helga just makes me do these things so he has things to talk about at the dinner table with Mrs. Helga.

“How was your day, dear?” as she dishes him up a bowl of muesli, and perhaps brimstone.
“Oh, not bad.  I made that sarcastic red-haired lady do the funniest things.  You wouldn’t believe it but she does any crazy thing I tell her to do!  Ha! Ha! Ha!”

Today, on the other hand, there were no burpees, modified or otherwise.  Instead I was made to do chest presses and hamstring curls and pullups, and each time the weight was increased on the last set.  I did ask Helga why he hates America, but he only laughed and scratched around one of his horns.  I’m guessing the gym air is a bit dry for his scaly demonic skin.

As a big finish I was made to do actual sit-ups.  (Who here has done a sit-up since sixth grade gym class?  I could practically smell the zit cream and Bonne Bell Lip-Smacker Dr. Pepper flavored lip gloss.)  Then some delightful planking.  My fifteen minute sentence on the DeathMaster seemed like a vacation.   A sweaty, miserable vacation.

You know how if you give a dog a bath they act like you’re leading them off to the gas chamber, and then when it’s over they race joyfully around the house for an hour?  It’s like that for me, if you replace “race joyfully around the house” with “trudge out to the car and get a latte at the drive-through Starbucks.”

(PS thanks Helga, I won’t miss that 7 pounds.  Here’s to the next 7!)


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