A Quick Note on Vanity

This morning, I decided to go for a bike ride from Venice Beach to Santa Monica Pier. Biking is something I learned to do like everyone else, at a young age, but it never really came naturally to me; the front wheel jerking from side to side, my brakes hitting too hard and the worst part of all . . . those tiny seats riding up into my crotch. Anyway, I'm biking along in the sunshine, waves crashing, looking wide eyed at all the crazies: dirty hippies, drug attics, yoga cults, muscle men and so on. All of the sudden, I see a tanned, moderately sculpted chest atop a pair of well fitting denim jeans. He looks up at me from his bike lock. I froze, wheels still turning. Then I see a beautiful blond headed child, one arm wrapped around his leg. This singular image is attacking all my weak spots. As I'm imagining my life with this strange man, my front tire finds its way off the path and onto the sand, an inhospitable environment for a amateur biker. I tumble over the handle bars and all the blood rushes to head in embarrassment. I don't dare look up at him. I won't even mention what I was wearing, let's just say I slept in it. I remounted the bike, laughing out loud at myself. Someone had to.
As I wound around the sandy bike paths back to Venice, I passed the yogis again and had a strange desire to stop and get in the downward dog position. I hate yoga. I eat for a living. So many conflicting thoughts. Do I need to be thinner, tanner? I will admit that these concerns crossed my mind. But in the end, and I know this from lots of experience, my appetite always conquers any thoughts of physical improvement. Too bad I'm still single.