Eyes of the Beholder

Being beautiful takes work. Or so I've heard. But the beautiful people aren't pounding on the treadmills and stair-steppers at the YMCA. That is what I thought as I perched and pedaled on the stationary bike in a room full of jiggly sweat. Then I looked to my left, at Birdie. She perched and pedaled on a similar machine, while reading a paperback book. To my annoyance, I noticed she was racking up more miles at a faster pace than me. So I looked for Big Guy. I cranked my head a bit to the right to peer around the column blocking my view. I caught a fleeting glimpse of him flailing on a grasshopper-like ski machine. He appeared to be covering a lot of miles or at least beating the machine to death. I found my beautiful people, I recognized. Then in a moment of largesse, I gave myself credit, too. I upped to three the number of the beautiful people at the Y.