2 machines over from me today, this totally huge fat guy was working out.


 I looked around, at the hard bodies, the perfect outfits– noticing the effort and primping that it took to get these people here, ready to be on display and present themselves to this health club world.

I wondered about the judgment towards themselves as they got ready….  I watched as they worked out, making sure it looked just so.

I noticed my own judgment too… about myself, them.

Then I looked back to the fat guy.

He was the happiest guy in the place.

He had the warmest, glowing smile I’d ever seen.


He was listening to something obviously awesome and he had his eyes shut, he was pushing hard, dancing a little and singing.

It occurred to me, he was in fact probably the healthiest guy in the whole place… a result of his happiness.

I’m left to ponder, is he happy because his judgment towards himself has somehow left?

Did the idea of looking awesome (by this health club’s standards) seem insurmountable so he said fuck it and decided to just be happy anyway?  ((Wondering this, I identified the part of me that still believes happiness is somehow achieved externally.. ))

And, the beautiful people that many of us would literally pay to look like—  how come it’s not good enough yet?  How come they aren’t dancing and singing and radiating joy?  Don’t they have what we’re all fighting for, slaving away hour after hour on these damn treadmills to achieve?

I let my gut out a little, untucked my shirt and realized happiness is drastically more sexy, more beautiful than anything anyone could ever make themselves physically look like.

No way out but in I’m afraid.  Again and again I’m reminded.

beauty is