Page 29 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
Helen laughs, pausing as the top of her squat. “Let’s not forget that I was eighteen months postpartum and still trying to recover my pelvic floor.” She resumes her squatting. “Jump rope’s still a problem. Gravity always wins in the end.”
“Try giving it another thirty years,” Babs gripes.
“I was recruited by an old sorority sister,” Helen continues. “But Marcia only made it a month. She’s more barre than barbell, and Ian wasn’t receptive to her wiles.” She reracks the bar, and I step in to remove a twenty-five-pound plate from the nearest end of the bar, while Helen removes one from the other side.We might be matched for height, but Helen is way stronger than either of us.
“That ended up being the case for most of—Do you mind?” Babs complains as Ian approaches. He’s been monitoring the class, giving feedback and correcting form.Hot.
He looks to me. “You comfortable with this weight?”
“I got up to 95 on the first set, and that felt fine,” I say. “115 seems reasonable.”
“Let’s see your setup.”
I find the correct placement for my hands on the bar, then duck beneath it, positioning it on the more muscled part of my shoulders, as Ian had on his considerably more developed “meat shelf,” mindful not to let the bar press against the top of my spine. I straighten and step back from the rig, standing with my feet shoulder width apart.
“Good. Take in a breath, brace, and get down to parallel,” he instructs, and I follow along, performing each step as directed. “Up—don’t let your knees come toward each other.”
When I’m back in a standing position, he nods. “Go ahead and finish the set.” I do, my awareness of the weight on the bar increasing with each repetition, but never to the point of discomfort… beyond the soreness I started with. It’s actually kind of helpful; I am keenly aware of every tortured muscle participating in the lift.
“Good. One thought,” he says, as I rerack. “You’re coming forward onto your toes. Keep your weight in all four corners of your feet. Think about digging in with your whole foot. Don’t put too much pressure on a single area.”
“Sure,” I say, as “competence boner” bounces in my brain in time with my elevated heart rate.
“Are you finished?” Babs asks him, approaching the bar for herself.
“No. Ellie, add another twenty pounds next round. You made that look easy.”
“Fine, fine.” Babs shoos him away. “Off with you. We’rebonding.”
“Of course you are,” he says, resigned, and moves on to the group a few spaces down.
Babs watches him go. “Helen, have you ever made anything ‘look easy’?”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the words.”
Babs raises her brows at me, conveying a silentintrigue.
I roll my eyes. “Keep that up, you’re going to give your forehead a cramp.”
Her grin is unrepentant. “As I wassaying, most of that manhunter flock dropped off. And those who stuck around found others onto whom they could project their affections.”
“There were four weddings with gym couples within a year of Firehouse opening,” says Helen. “And awholelotta babies.” She punctuates this with a nod toward the break room, left of our spot at the far end of the rig. Filling the window that looks onto the floor is a group of kiddos under preschool age, observing the class with rapt interest. Grant stands behind them, Helen’s daughter, Penny, on his shoulders. Firehouse offers childcare during some morning classes on Tuesday and Thursday, with Grant as sitter. They’ve been clambering over him like chicks on a farm dog. It’s precious.
Penny waves to her mom. Grant waves to me.
“Why did you stick around?” I ask Helen. We step back so Babs can have her turn with the bar.
She seems to consider her answer. “Have you had your goal-
setting session yet?” I shake my head. “That was what sold me. Not that the workouts weren’t great. But”—she gives me a droll look—“I’m a lot of woman.” She gestures to herself, moving her arms to emphasize her generous frame. “I came in expecting to be taken to task for being fat. It’s why Marcia dragged me in. She thought it would be ‘good for me.’”
“Neat friend,” I say.
“Right?” Helen laughs, retrieving another two ten-pound plates to add to the bar. Babs finishes her set, and she and I put the twenty-fives we’d removed back on.
Helen continues as she adds her tens. “Every other gym or trainer I’d met with before coming here gave me a goal weight. ‘Here’s your metric for success. Hit that, you’ve succeeded. You don’t? You’re a failure.’”
Her expression shadows. She crosses her arms, leaning against the bar. “I was done with that. I was told to lose weight if I wanted to get pregnant. Or it was my physician’s opinion that my weight was contributing to my fertility issues. And there might have been some truth to that, butChrist.” She sighs. “When you’re fat, that’s the first thing you hear for anything medical. ‘Try losing X pounds; see how it goes.’”
