Previously in this series: If Carrie Brownstein Were Your Girlfriend.

If Cobie Smulders were your ostensibly platonic gym buddy for whom you have conflicted feelings, she would always have one stubborn lock of hair that escaped her ponytail. “Let me get that for you,” you would say, and then you would use your calloused hands to slip it back under the elastic, with a curiously delicate touch. “Thanks, man,” Cobie would say. “One of these days I’ll get it right.”

If Cobie Smulders were your ostensibly platonic gym buddy for whom you have conflicted feelings, she would occasionally speak disparagingly of her thighs. “Cobie,” you would say, “you’re out of your mind. These [you squeeze her adductor muscles] are magnificent.” “You really think so?” she would say doubtfully. “Trust me,” you would say. “Every person, literally EVERY PERSON in this gym has thought about kissing them gently.” “You’re the best, Nicole,” she would say gratefully. “Let’s do some deadlifts.”

If Cobie Smulders were your ostensibly platonic gym buddy for whom you have conflicted feelings, she would be fixated on your tight hamstrings. “How are your hamstrings so tight when you have such open hips?” she would grunt, using her torso to push your slightly bent leg back into your chest. “Are you rolling these things out at night while you watch TV? You know you need to break up the fascia.” “Ugh, I knowww,” you would say. “But it hurts!” “It’s supposed to, you pussy,” she would say, grinning and preparing to take your leg a little further back. “Okay, deep breath in…big exhale. Good!”

If Cobie Smulders were your ostensibly platonic gym buddy for whom you have conflicted feelings, you would talk about Crossfit a lot. Neither of you would belong to a box, but you would have done the on-ramp program together for fun the previous summer. “I don’t know,” you would say. “I just think doing Olympic weightlifting moves in a high-speed, competitive environment is dangerous for people who don’t have a solid fitness background and the ability to hold their bodies correctly.” “That’s every fitness program, though,” Cobie would say. “You have to take responsibility for your own form; just because some meathead is shrieking at you that you can do two more reps doesn’t mean you have to.” “I guess you’re right,” you would say. “Damn straight,” she would say.

If Cobie Smulders were your ostensibly platonic gym buddy for whom you have conflicted feelings, you would have exactly the same fitness level. You would be better at twisting reverse crunches, front squats, and skull-crushers, and she would be better at balance moves, bicep curls and lunges. You would be absolutely neck-and-neck for pull-ups, and the two of you would jokingly recreate Legolas and Gimli’s competition at Helm’s Deep. “ELEVEN,” she would text you. “lol impressive for someone who just woke up from a coma” you would respond, while frantically trying to calculate how you could make it to twelve without rocket boots.

If Cobie Smulders were your ostensibly platonic gym buddy for whom you have conflicted feelings, you would never have to wait for a man to finish his set. Cobie would start to say “mind if we work in?” and men would immediately fall off the bench and stand patiently to the side until you were done. Once, she idly adjusted her sports bra and a man walked directly into the edge of the squat rack and needed twenty-four stitches. She used her sweat towel to control the bleeding and keep pressure on the wound, while shrugging at you apologetically.

If Cobie Smulders were your ostensibly platonic gym buddy for whom you have conflicted feelings, she would occasionally look longingly at your bulgy, Flo-Rida-esque abs. “I wish the studio would let me bulk up a bit,” she would say. “I love substantial muscles on women, but APPARENTLY men don’t.” “Men are dummies,” you would say. “I mean, you look perfect to me, but I think you’d look amazing if they let you put on about seven pounds of lean mass.” “THANK YOU,” Cobie would say. “I think so too!”

If Cobie Smulders were your ostensibly platonic gym buddy for whom you have conflicted feelings, you would tease her occasionally about her obsession with deadlifts. “Why aren’t YOU obsessed with them?” she would say, rolling the barbell over to you. “Squeeze those shoulder blades together, slight bend in the knees…keep the weight grazing against your legs all the way down and all the way back up.” As you finished the move, you would feel her hand on your glutes. “You want that little pelvic thrust at the end,” she said. “That’s the best part…there. Nice.”

If Cobie Smulders were your ostensibly platonic gym buddy for whom you have conflicted feelings, she would beg you to tag along when she shoots on location. “C’mon, Cobie, I have two kids and a full-time job, I can’t just drop everything and go to Romania for three months. Doesn’t the studio have, like, four dudes following you around to make sure you’re keeping it tight and dropping turkey burgers into your opened mouth every two hours?” “I guess,” Cobie would say. “But by the time I get out of wardrobe and have my nine pounds of high-def makeup removed, I just want a friend to sprawl on the couch with me and watch Agent Carter, you know?” “I guess I could bring the kids to Romania,” you would say.

If Cobie Smulders were your ostensibly platonic gym buddy for whom you have conflicted feelings, she would be a teeny bit jealous when Mallory came to town. “Why are you always weird when Mallory comes to town?” you would say. “Oh…I don’t know. Am I?” she would say vaguely. “I just think sometimes having a third whee..person in our workouts can slow us down, we have such a good rhythm together.” “We really do,” you would say. “Let’s fill in these micro-tears we’ve made in our quads with a whey protein-based recovery beverage.” “Can you make them?” Cobie would say. “Mine always turn out lumpy.”