February 23, 2018:

Cool stare at the gym. She's confident, her smile is either ironic or playful or both. I'm sweat-drenched and uncharacteristically bashful. It's me who looks away, one of very few times since entering recovery.

Giggle Girls, from the yoga mats. They're the traveling clique of highschoolers always in a group. Whispering little comments about the people in the hall. Their tone is unfriendly, Mean Girls making snide judgments, although I can't catch their words. Whatever. Not my scene. The cool girls reinforcing each other's vanity. It renders their yoga-toned young bodies unattractive.

The gym. Lately my second home. I'm hitting it hard here, these days. I want my baby to love me.

I think, she does. And she won't care about any lingering dadbelly proving so difficult to shed.

Still. I want to be more what she expects, or that I feel she deserves.

American Beauty. Probably not the most healthy reason for getting healthy.