License to Lift The orange notebook where I track repetitions of the stitches that I knit and repetitions of the big three is my tiny passport into the country of Squat. The muscled border guards need only see numbers and hashmarks and the focused look on my reddening face. “Excuse me Could I Get a spot?” I mean, could a woman get a spot 'round here? A bit of space? A weightroom of one's own? A squat rack of one's own at least? I know I don't look like the type but turn my hands over and you can read my palm, my past, the yellow calluses on the pads. The natives are grunting but each day I flash my orange passport and take my place under the Olympic bar I drop down with more plates on the bar each time My rainbow socks flash and I get up again. Another hashmark in the book. I've been around, and more important: I'll be back.