Exercising in pink: Hot or not?

In college, I developed an overwhelming dislike of pink workout attire. Well, not just pink workout gear, but matching pink workout gear. White sneaks with pink Nike swooshes, yoga pants with pink trim, and cute tanks with pink accents. All at once! And pink hair ribbons? Don't even get me started. Is the gym really the place for a fashion show of femininity?

Well, if the gym is entitled the Estro-gym, as Williams College's all-cardio equipment workout area was woefully named, I suppose it is asking for just such a display. Unsurprisingly, this is also where my dislike for such a wardrobe began. But doesn't being in a space called the Estro-gym deem such a show unnecessary? Testosterone, be damned! Just walking into this space apparently demands that the entrant possess a pair of X chromosomes. Aren't the ensuing pink trimmings simply reinforcing what is already known and expected?

Moreover, has any male ever entered the Estro-gym? These women are essentially declaring their femininity to the other women in pink tanks, reading Cosmo on the other ellipticals. This is quite literally fruitless.

But surely, there must be a time and a place for some pink workout gear. Every woman likes to feel feminine in her own way, and for many, this involves some harmless color association. I am not above this. But where and when would this practice hold the most value? I fancy myself to have found an answer.

I joined a boxing gym a few weeks ago and immediately faced a dilemma. What color handwraps to buy? Black, red, yellow, or ... pink?

Pink handwraps? But that would go against my deep-seated hatred of combining pink and sweat. And trust me, I have never been more aware of how many pores are on my hands, than I am at the end of a boxing workout. To wrap all of that sweat up in pink is a mind-blowing visual manifestation of all things Estro-gym. Could I really bring myself to that?

Yes. Yes, I could. The Ring is just the space for feminine flair. With 215-pound John and 185-pound Juan to my left and right, and Athena's rock-solid delts in front of me, I rather enjoy a subtle reminder (to myself and to others) that I am, in fact, a woman.

A boxer's hands make the final movements in an exertion of torque that produces a powerful jab, cross, hook, uppercut, or some combination of the above. The hands get the final say. Mine are drenched and callused, yes -- but pink.

Boom.