So I'm walking around in a tank top and my son says to me, "Whoa, Mom, your muscles look like a man's."
He's six; this was a compliment. The boy has no idea that most moms don't bench press 125.
But it got me thinking. Did I have the motto of one of my favorite exercise books--"Lift Like A Man, Look Like A Goddess"--all wrong?
Last night, a pretty young thing walked into the weight room, and the productivity of all the men fell into a steep decline. The man I pay to train me followed her around suggesting exercises and correcting her technique. An 18-year-old, who has told me in the past about his obsession with exercise, halted everything to become her human stopwatch, sparing the helpless maiden a turn of her neck toward the clock to time her own crunches.
She certainly fit in the goddess category much better than I. But after she tried--and failed--to bench the bar, with any number of male spotters hovering over her pectorals, I sat down for my turn and heard my trainer say to her, "This is how it's done."
I'll take that any day. And maybe apply a little lip gloss next time.