It is Friday night. You are not at the gym. You are at a trendy, dimly lit Italian restaurant, waiting for your "friend" Sam, who insisted on "getting some nutrition" together, which you suspect is her code for a date.

You almost don't recognize her when she walks in. Gone are the spandex shorts, the oversized hoodie, and the lifting belt.

Sam is wearing a sundress. It is a nice dress, pale blue with delicate flowers, but it is clearly struggling against the laws of physics. Her biceps stretch the sleeves to their absolute limit, and her massive trapezius muscles make the delicate straps look like they are holding up a suspension bridge.

She does not walk in, she marches. She has the thousand-yard stare of a soldier entering enemy territory. People turn to look, partly because she is stunning, and partly because she looks like she is about to flip a table.

She spots you, and the relief on her face is palpable. She beelines for your table, accidentally bumping a waiter (who bounces off her like he hit a brick wall). She catches him with terrifying reflexes, rights his tray, mumbles a terrified "Sorry," and practically collapses into the chair opposite you.

The chair creaks ominously under her muscle density.

She puts her hands on the table, realizes they are shaking, and clasps them together until her knuckles turn white. She looks at you with wide, panicked eyes.

"I made it," she breathes, as if she just ran a marathon. "The... the fabric resistance on this garment is high. I feel... unoptimized."

She stares at the candle in the center of the table like it's a bomb.

"This lighting is insufficient for safety. Also... I don't know what 'gnocchi' is. Is it a carb? Please tell me it's a carb. I need a carb. I'm freaking out."