That's heavy.

I love men. As much as I sometimes hate them, I absolutely love the pants off of them—sometimes literally.

But the thing I really love about them is their physical strength.

Men are strong. There’s no denying it. When it comes to lifting and carrying things, a man who doesn’t work out versus a woman who doesn’t can lift like three times as much without even flinching.

I can watch men pick up heavy things all day long.

Just the other day while working out, I’d sneak glances at my boyfriend. Just watching him pick up weights and carry them across the room made me squeal.

It’s a good thing everyone was wearing iPods.

Then he decided to do some bicep curls with this weight-laden bar that I couldn’t lift off of me during an adrenaline rush.

And he kept curling it. And kept curling it. And kept curling it.

And my face went slack as the drool slid down my chin. Who knows how long I stayed propped up against the bike in my comatose state.

Knowing he has the power of a Dodge Ram only makes me want to scream strange orders at him—watch him lift objects for the sake of lifting.

“Sweetie, could you help me pick up this table? Just set it down in the same spot”

“Hey, that recliner needs to move three feet that way. And then three feet in the opposite direction.”

“Oh, this laundry basket full of cement is so heavy! Could you carry it for me?”

It’s even better when he picks me up. Usually he doesn’t have a choice cause I’ll run out from behind a wall andleap into his arms like some kind of lemur from hell. I don’t think he minds too much, even when he groans, “Woman, what are you doing?”

Other times, I’ll simply say, “Pick me up!”

“No,” he usually replies. But I climb up anyway.

After all, no means yes, right?

I’m going to start slipping steroids into his breakfast cereal so he can help me move my car sometime.