Pulling Up

I do pull-ups at the gym.  Apparently unlike other women.  The beefy, muscled boys love to give me pointers.

One trainer refers to the pull-up bar as a “girl”.  So when he sees me, he asks, “Did you visit your girl?” and “Did you do right by your girl?”

In what can only be described as an out-of-body experience, I respond, “Hey, I am always respectful to the girl.”  What middle-aged, white, middle class, Jewish woman talks like this? (Apparently, I do.)

“All right.  That’s the answer I wanna hear,” he says.

Ok, gym talk is nuts.  And, even nutsier? That I am talking the talk.   Imagine that.  Actually, DON’T.  It is too ugly.

My sister, weighing in at approximately 98 pounds soaking wet, comes over after doing a non-work-out on the elliptical machine.  She didn’t even break a sweat.  “It was the least I could do,” she says.  No lie. It is hard to imagine 30 minutes on a cardio machine and not one bead of sweat.  But my sister has always been exceptional.

She wants to try a pull-up.  I offer to give her an assist.  “I can do this,” she says as she waves me off and grabs the bar.  And then dangles helplessly like a fish caught on bait.  “I had no idea that this was hard!!”  This is clearly not the least she could do.  So, she kisses me and goes to the locker room for a shower even though not even a little sweat was shed.

But don’t mess with my sister.  She’ll drop you in 5 seconds.  She may not have abs of steel but she has a force of will that would humble professional boxers.