My Gym Instructor is Satan

Besides having abs as shapely as pull-apart cinnamon scrolls—but over-baked crispy ones—my gym coach, Sven, is as sadistic as Satan.

“Twenty seconds left!” He checks his Sternvakt watch. “Push through, you lazy little moose!”

I groan into more burning squats. Sven promises it gets better on the other side, I just have to get through the worst. I hope so. I want to get fit because I'm trying for a baby. Not with Sven, although that baby would be gorgeous. With Caleb, my husband, who's more mid-range.

***

“Maybe you should stop working out,” Caleb says, when I'm pregnant. “There's only three months left.”

“I'm pregnant, not dying,” I snap. Caleb's abs look like rising cinnamon scroll dough. “Sven says to push through!”

“Push through what? And why?”

“The pain. Because things get easier afterwards.”

It’s a good mantra. I skip hypnobirthing classes because Sven's advice is better.

Labour, birth, sleep deprivation—push through.

It works for everything.

Toddler tantrums, three kids, marriage tension, push through.

Work is stressful, teens are moody, better on the other side.

Menopause, noisy grandkids, growing senile, push through!

It's better on the other…

***

On the other side, a horned Sven waits in a flickering, smoky hall. “Welcome to the fiery foyär!”

“Wait, you’re Satan?” I ask, sweating.

“Svatan,” he corrects. He throws his beautiful hands up into the oven-hot air. “Guilty as charged, my discontent little puffin!”

His abs really are baked to a golden-brown.

“But you said things would get better.”

“Well! Aren't they?”

“I gave up cinnamon scrolls for this!”

“But that’s why you belong here, you joyless little salmon. Granted, the etärnell kättakömb is daunting, but you come prepared!” He checks his Sternvakt. “Infinity seconds left. Push through, you tormented little polar bear!”