"The endless pursuit of beauty, independent of substance, renders the pursuer possessed of neither." 

So I haven't smoked in 82 days.  Confession: I have weighed myself.   That little "relapsey thing" I'm working on with my core recovery group.  It's so humiliatingly personal that I had to take that inside. I didn't expect that it would be this difficult to not get on the scale. But I am dealing with it. As soon as I have some hilarity or an interesting breakthrough about it, I'll be sure and share it.  Until then, I'll just try to 'stay in the day' as we say, (hey, hey, hey) in the program.  And 'keep coming back.'  And my personal favorite (not) 'It works if you work it and you're worth it!' And gol darnit people like me.   That last one is from Saturday Night Live like 20 years ago.  They don't really say that at 12-step meetings.  To quote Diedrich Bader in Office Space,  

"I believe you'd get your a** kicked sayin' somethin' like 'at."

Why do I aspire to a weight that I cannot hit without a great deal of effort,  sacrifice or perhaps limb removal? I think there is a part of me that would love to be smaller, more lithe, more sinewy.  More typical of the anorexic model types that barrage us from every media portal.  But then there's part of me that is afraid if I do that, if I attain that skinniness ideal,  other substantial parts of myself will somehow also disappear.   Of course there's also the part about my having a caboose.  Like Miss Effie said in her Caribbean lilt about her 4'ft. thick concrete house in Grand Cayman, "that bi**h ain't goin' nowhere."

What is 'beautiful' anyway?  There's a saying in French that goes something like "beautiful women are for men with no imagination."  That's taken from the 1925 quote by Marcel Proust.

I like it. And I hate it.  Like women are for men anyway.  Most of the women I know are decidedly against them.  And not for lack of good reason. Wink Wink.  I'm not.  At least not all day everyday.  Maybe we could change it to something like:

"The endless pursuit of beauty, independent of substance, renders the pursuer possessed of neither." -Me 

I once had a man tell me, a man whom I (once) deeply admired, respected and loved, that I simply was not beautiful.  Like out of the blue. Weird. "You're nice looking," he said, "but you're certainly not classically beautiful."  And under my breath I said, "uh, thanks? Dick.  I don't think I ever said I was,  did I?"

His name is not Dick, by the way.

We're all slouching toward flabbiness. Even that bad-ass personal trainer at the gym, Sue.  She's tiny, ripped, strong, pretty.  It's her life to be that way.  But honey, one day she's going to be 65.  And 75.  And 90 if she's lucky. Right?

So when does this spin class end?

That level of intensity runs counter to my spiritual recovery.  And this is really just about getting to know my own heart and head.  It's good to know what's a false object of desire and what's really filling the spiritual tank.