The Squat Tax
He thought he was studying form. She knew he was auditing anatomy. What followed was not a date—but a surprisingly well-organized micro-economy.
For 92 days, Derek maintained what he internally referred to as 'The Gluteal Research Initiative.' His hypothesis: that optimal squat depth correlated directly with gravitational defiance and, possibly, divine intervention. His methodology? Standing precisely 8.3 feet behind her at the squat rack, arms crossed, brow furrowed, occasionally muttering 'fascinating' while taking imaginary notes on his protein shaker.
He practiced his opener in the shower ('Love your hip hinge!'), in traffic ('Your posterior chain is chef's kiss'), and once, tragically, while arguing with a toaster ('You’re not even close to her ROM!').
Today was Day 93—the day of The Approach. He strode over, heart pounding like a kettlebell dropped from orbit, and delivered his line with the gravitas of a Nobel laureate accepting an award for 'Most Sincere Admiration of Quadriceps Engagement.'
She didn’t turn. Didn’t blink. Just locked eyes in the mirror—her expression somewhere between 'I’ve seen this script' and 'I’ve also seen its deleted scenes, and they involved glitter and poor life choices.'
'Thanks,' she said, unracking 225 lbs like it was a mildly inconvenient thought. 'I do this to get away from guys like you.'
Derek’s soul briefly left his body and tried to hide behind the TRX straps.
He stammered about 'biomechanical appreciation' and 'form-based admiration.' She gestured lazily toward the mirror. 'Dude. You blinked 17 times in 4 seconds. Your pupils dilated when I paused at parallel. And your water bottle has condensation only on the side facing me. It’s fine. I accept cash or Venmo. $5 per stare. Minimum two-stare commitment—courtesy discount for chronic offenders.'
She pulled out a laminated card from her gym bag. It read: 'SQUAT TAX – Valid for 24 hours. Non-refundable. Stares must be pre-authorized (eye contact required). Tip if you learn something.'
Derek paid. Then, realizing he’d just funded her next leg day, he paid again—for 'advanced gluteal insight.'
As he walked away, she called after him, 'Hey—next time? Try spotting. It’s free. And way less awkward.'
He nodded solemnly, then spent the rest of the hour spotting air, whispering encouragement to a dumbbell, and drafting a respectful, form-focused Yelp review for her: ★★★★★ 'Would stare again. Excellent tax compliance.'
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