I don’t have to look around to realize what’s going on, men peering in wonderment at my personal space. Sometimes I feel the love of first impressionists observing a woman lifting, curves hugging onto fabrics for dear living with sweat and sheen from hard work. We fuel each other, every so often smile and nod in harmony and unspoken claims. Other times there’s a rage inside some men’s stares when I pass their field of vision. I shoot them in the face with fulsome courage because they’ll never run me into the position of fear. I’ll steal the glory from these devilish green-eyed monsters on the stage of their own gym and vacation with their missing muscle gains.
I don’t have to pick my head high as the Queen of England to know that glares put bullet-holes down my back. The headphones scream in my eardrums and I bounce up and down, huffed and puffed in a hoodie, pushing forward and back on the pad in the center of an imaginary mosh pit of a Hammer Strength machine. Weight stacked, I’m lining in my front view the enemies behind me who wish my collapse. I grab the handles with the heavy valor of Thor and row for heroism, row for the battle blood in my veins and row for the smoke exiting out my eager winning nostrils like an animated bull.