Dear Woman in Makeup at the Gym

I see you there, Woman wearing Makeup at the Gym. I see you in your yoga shorts, showing off thighs that look like they're carved from rock and an *kitten* an artist would weep over, and your tank top showing guns to die for. I see you with your carefully curled hair, held back with a headband that has the nerve to match your shirt, you smell faintly of apples, and have tastefully painted fingernails, with not a single chip that I can see.

I know you see the looks, feel the frowns and scowls, and perhaps hear the whispers about how you're just here to find a man, aren't here to really work, are shallow, a trophy stepford wife, and certainly not at all kind or intelligent.

But you and I know the truth. When I was on the bench you asked me, full of nervous kindness, if I minded if you worked in because you were on your lunch break and only had an hour. You offered to spot me but did it just right, never once going to touch the bar until my very last rep of my last set. You were quick when you added weight to what I was benching and equally as quick to take it off for my next set. You chatted pleasantly about your program and how long you'd been lifting and how your husband got you into it.

And when you were done you smiled happily, told me thanks and that you hoped to see my again sometime because you love talking to other woman who lift, and went off to do some box jumps that I'm pretty sure gave me DOMS just to behold.

Dear Woman in Makeup at the Gym, today was a crap day for me. I didn't feel well, I didn't want to be at the gym, but talking to you was the nicest part of my time there. You brightened my day. Other's may suck their teeth, seething as you stride out with your makeup still in place, but I say keep doing you and keep ignoring them, because who are they anyway?

Nobody at all.

Dear Woman in Makeup at the Gym, it was nice to meet you. Remain awesome. Tomorrow I wear lipgloss in your honor.