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Hi again my new-found friends of great strength.

Today’s topic revolves around how you like to lift weights.

#1: Spoiler alert from reality: You are not an ant.
Ants are apparently amazing animals: they can lift upwards of 50 times their own weight!  (This would be far more impressive if that didn’t translate into 1/10th of a Ritz cracker…  but I digress.)

Humans are not ants, and yet I see men at the gym trying to do dead lifts with weights the size of tractor tires for a tractor that a T-Rex could drive.  Usually the culprit is some spindly-armed teenager who thinks that if they can lift the bar one time that they will awaken the next morning with bulging muscles and half-naked women helplessly bound to them by the gravitational pull of their biceps alone.

Alternatively, you could just get yourself bit by a radioactive spider.

#2: If you have to make child-birth sounds to lift a weight, then maybe that isn’t the right weight range for you.
Every Sunday there is a man at my local gym who comes in and does many difficult exercises.  He lets the entire gym know he is doing these difficult exercises by moaning and grunting with the occasional punctuation of a rebelesque yell.

It’s like one moment there you are: quietly doing squats and minding your own business.  And the next you realize you are actually doing squats inside a birthing chamber housing a blue whale.  Awkward.

I thought this was a photo of a Ken doll that got mutated in a horrific plastic accident.  Boy, was I wrong.

#3: If you are going to help a girl lift anything, please make sure you can actually do it.
This story doesn’t really take place at the gym but instead of humiliating myself with a blog series entitled “How my very existence emasculates men,” I figured I would just pop it into here.

I had to buy chairs for my business and I went to Office Depot.  I needed twelve chairs and I was aggravated to discover that the chairs I most desired would not fit neatly inside the cart.  A male worker came over to help me.

Worker: Do you need assistance?
Me: These chairs don’t fit in the cart.
Worker: I can help!

I assumed that he would go and procure some sort of wheeled contraption to efficiently move these chairs to the checkout portion of the store.  Nope.  Instead he bent to try and lift three of these chairs and then ended up grabbing only two of them.  This is going to take forever, I thought.

I grabbed a stack of six and started walking up to the front.  Thanks to my superhuman gift of fast walking, I bypassed him in short fashion.

Worker: Lady stop!
Me: Yes?
Worker: You’re making me look bad, please put them down.

I assessed the situation.  The man was panting and almost out of breath.  The two chairs were awkwardly perched in his arms.  My goal was to get my shopping done in as little time as physics would allow without tesseracting.  There wasn’t any room for male ego to spontaneously crop up and/or combust on me.  I kept going.

I checked out and loaded up eight of the chairs before he was finished procuring the final four.  He then insisted on trying to put those chairs in the truck, but as soon as his back was turned I started plopping them into the flatbed.

When he finished getting the (one) chair into the truck he turned to me, tipped an imaginary hat, and said, “You’re welcome.”

Watch out!  It’s a stacking chair!  It weighs four, maybe even FIVE pounds! 



P.S. The End.