Swole. Malaiseville U.

When it’s chest day, he goes low weight, high reps. He doesn’t grip the bar. He lets it rest in the crooks of his thumbs. Lets it hover at his pecs then pops it up.  

Get down, Doc! somebody yells.  

Spot! he yells back.

He interlaces his fingers behind his back and pushes out his chest. He puts his heels on the end of the bench to muscle-confuse his core and does another set.

He believes in Jesus enough to believe Jesus would do Romanian deadlifts in bare feet, cut-offs, and a tank top.

Who am I to say he’s not right? I’ve got Jesus doing weird things too.  

He visualizes his best body in the mirror. His and his lissome wife’s cool-down stretches are Cubist and erotic. He pastors a popular church and teaches discipleship in the Bible department. He’ll put all this on his Instagram.

Every now and then, we cross paths on campus. We park in the same faculty lot. He drives a truck that looks like a fighter jet and backs it in so it’s face-first. Always flexing.

When he sees me this morning, he puts up two fingers.

Sure, man. Whatever. Peace.

Bird Report

On the way home from work: a red-tailed hawk at eye-level on a fencepost on Cortsville. Maybe ten feet away as I pass. Blank faced. Worn-out as a football.

Selah, my brother.