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doubt her skinny arms could pull her little body through a single pull-up, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to grab her by her perfect hair and bash her button nose into the squat rack.
    This is not my petty, envious aggression.
    There are only five of us in the gym this early on a Friday, so I’m not sure what Mr. Twitchy Forearms is planning to photograph. Without introducing our tanned guest or explaining why he’s here, Chad tells everyone to find a spot and then starts the timer. My barbell is fitted with thirty-five-pound bumper plates—a total of one hundred and fifteen pounds when combined with the bar’s weight—and I roll it to a spot close to a pull-up station where I can watch our guest and his busty assistant set up.
    When the clock beeps, I attack the workout with a ferocity that would make Tom Cruise’s Oprah appearance look like a placid chat with the Dali Lama. The timer is set for twenty minutes, and every sixty seconds we have to perform five front squats and ten pull-ups. We then get whatever’s left of each minute to catch our breath and psych up for the next onslaught. There aren’t enough squat racks to hold barbells at shoulder height for everyone, so each of us has to clean our barbell from the ground to the front of our shoulders at the beginning of every set. Some of the warriors are doing this with two hundred and twenty-five pounds, which is more than any of their buff bodies weigh, and when they drop their bars on the rubber flooring at the end of each set, the thunderous sound adds to the adrenaline rush. It’s like being in a war zone, except the only casualties are excess calories and weakness.
    I’m sucking wind by the third minute, and by minute ten I’m ready to curl up into a fetal position in the corner and never move again. But between each set I steal glimpses of Mr. Twitchy Forearms, who’s standing with his arms crossed and watching us work. Something in me wants to impress him, so I push through the pain and maintain my pace. When I finally drop off the bar after my final pull-up, my lungs are whimpering for oxygen and every muscle in my shiny, sweaty body is ballooning with blood and lactic acid. The warriors and I collapse beside our barbells. Normally I’d be flat on my back huffing huge gulps of air, but today I make an effort to sit up with my legs bent in front of me and my arms draped around my knees.
    Mr. Twitchy Forearms and his perky little assistant exchange looks about what they just witnessed, and Chad, who’s been in the center of the gym barking orders and correcting our form, walks over to speak with them.
    Like frozen insects warming back to life after winter, the warriors and I slowly return to consciousness. We strip the bumper plates off of our barbells like silent soldiers and return our weapons to the racks where we found them. Everyone else stumbles out, sweaty and disheveled and reveling in their accomplishments, but something holds me back. Instead of heading home to shower before work, I chalk up my hands and lug a twenty-four-kilo kettlebell to the center of the room. If one exercise is responsible for firming my ass, it’s the kettlebell swing. It’s also a movement that I have a natural aptitude for, and my natural flexibility lets me perform it better than any of the warriors at Rev. And for some stupid reason, I suddenly feel like showing off.
    With the bell on the floor in front of me, I stand with my legs just outside of shoulder-width apart. I hinge at my hips and jut my ass back, reaching my hands forward to grab the kettlebell’s handle. Keeping my shoulders pulled back and my arms straight, I swing it back through my legs so that it’s behind me. When it’s reached the end of its arc, I explosively thrust my hips, propelling the bell forward and up to chest height. Then I let it fall back, reversing its path as I hinge my hips to let it pass back through my legs. I breathe out forcefully with each thrust and take air in as