just my color

At the end of my shift at the library, I watched as Caton found a secure beam and did five or six pull-ups. I elbowed him aside and jumped up to see if I could manage one. "You're not supposed to use your legs," he said, pointing to my swinging limbs as I hoisted myself up with trembling arms. I managed to touch my forehead to the beam before dropping down. I looked around for applause, very impressed with myself, but Caton and Yuri were looking at their cell phones. The call slip machine croaked out another dvd slip, and Caton tore it off. "Hey," he said,"Someone's lucky, both the Kill Bills are in. You like that movie?" I smirked, because he referred to 2 films in the singular and because I have hated every movie he has tried to start a conversation over. "Actually, yes," I admitted, embarrassed to share a movie preference with someone who dyes his hair like Eminem. He beeped the barcode. "You could pull off that," he said. "What?" I hoped for a moment that my half-a-pull up had somehow shown my aptitude for ninja ass-whupping. "Her outfit," he said, holding up the disc. I blinked, remembering all the times I walked past the full-sized standee of Uma in her yellow catsuit outside the video store and grumbled to myself about donuts. I surprised myself by being suddenly flattered. The feminist in me wrung her hands. Well, the outfit in the movie is splattered with the blood of her enemies, that's pretty good, but you're responding to an unrealistic body image reinforced by male validation. Shame spiral! Bah. I have a pile of old katanas (can I pluralize that?) that need sharpening in front of Bridget Jones's Diary.