Satan's helper

The woman that teaches my kickboxing and step classes is incredible. Well, incredible in physical form. I know next to nothing about her personal life, so I can't really tell you if she's incredible in that nature. Physically though, she kicks major ass. Her thighs and stomach are absolutely cheeseless. With God and the readers of this blog as my witnesses, I now dub her "Cheeseless Wonder II" (the original Cheeseless Wonder is my friend Sarah, who I'm sure, although she is pregnant with her second child, still remains cheeseless). I spend the majority of step class tripping over my bench because of the utter amazement of the Cheeseless Wonder II. HOW did she get through three pregnancies without a scrap of cheese? Not even one frickin' dimple. The only plausible explanation is that she's the anti-Christ. Satan's helper in spandex.

I nearly die in her classes. When she says, "Okay, everyone, march in place and take your pulse," I keep my pulse to myself--according to the chart, I should be in the midst of cardiac arrest. I REFUSE to let myself die in the middle of step class. I know I have crotch sweat, and I would be horribly embarrassed, even in death, of the EMS guys viewing the sweat of my crotch. I mean, come on, NOBODY wants to see crotch sweat, not even the EMS guys. You KNOW they talk.

"Hey man, did you pick up that heart attack?"
"Yeah, but she was DOA; it was pretty bad--she went into cardiac arrest, fell on the treadmill and her ponytail got caught in the wheel--ripped her scalp clear off."
"Really? Man, that's pretty sick."
"It was a real scene, but that's not the gross part. Christ, you should've seen this woman's crotch-sweat! It was halfway down her thighs!"

Jeesh, it's horrible. So anyways, back to Satan in spandex: This past Tuesday, during step class, she had us holding 5-lb weights and doing squats off the bench. So, my right foot was up on the bench, and my left foot would move off the bench to squat. We were supposed to dip down low in the squat, butt out--perfect crotch-sweat viewing for anyone behind us--then "power" back up. After about ten of those son-of-a-bitches, my left leg just stopped working. In order to avoid falling on my face, I removed my right leg from the bench and just started doing normal squats--both feet on the floor. Lunging Lucifer lunges her cheeseless self over to me and asks, "Oh no! Are the bench-squats hurting your knees?" I just looked at her with my flushed cheeks and said (between gulps for air), "No...my...leg...has...just...stopped...working. Will...no...longer...raise...off...floor..." She just looked at me and smiled, bemused, because SHE, of course, hadn't even broken a sweat.

Come to think of it, I've never even noticed crotch-sweat on her. What a bitch.