Currently it’s after midnight, and I’m house sitting for some good friends who have two cats named Oscar and Riley. Just moments ago I sneaked a selfie with Riley, who’s hanging out on the dining room table. I’ll be here for a while, so expect a lot of pictures of me and cats. I mean, they’re adorable, even though Riley threw up this afternoon, probably to let me know that my stay here isn’t going to be a complete cakewalk. Or maybe the vomit was just a commentary on my outfit. It’s hard to say because I don’t speak feline. Anyway, in addition to having two cats, my friends also have a hot tub, and I’ve told myself I can’t use it tonight until I finish blogging. I figure that’s better than coming in all limp and tired and passing out on my keyboard. But if this ends up being my shortest blog yet, you’ll know why.

I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve spent the afternoon watching so much Netflix that my eyeballs feel like they’re going to fall out and roll across the floor, right past the cat vomit. (Just kidding, I cleaned it up.) I started with an episode of Embarrassing Bodies, then delved into a documentary called The Perfect Physique about the world’s top male fitness models. It was fascinating. One of the guys was the current Mr. Universe, another guy had a backpack specially designed for meal prep, and I’m pretty sure all of them had muscles in their earlobes. Of course, I’m always interested in psychology, so what I found most fascinating was why several of the guys got into body building to begin with. One of them had a wife who left him for a weightlifter. Another got bullied as a child. And even after winning Mr. Universe, that guy said he still wasn’t happy because he had to maintain his title and there’s always more to achieve.

I think what interests me about all this is that I often get pretty hung up on looks. I see someone on the cover of a magazine, and it’s easy to assume they have their all their shit together. But–duh–they’re only humans, each with his own story, motivations, and fears. All of us think we’ll be happy when, but happiness is an inside job. After all, if happiness is attached to having something like the perfect physique, a certain job, or so much money in your bank account, what happens when those things change?

Earlier today I saw my therapist–not like at the grocery store, but for therapy. We talked about the dream I had about her last week and the fact that her hair was unkempt in the dream. Well, over three years of therapy has paid off–my guess was right. Her messy hair had to do with my vanity and concern for outward appearances. I said that lately I haven’t been hyper focused on my physical body, but rather my circumstances–no boyfriend, no job, no place of my own, stuff like that. First, she reminded me that the image I have in my head of a successful man is a heterosexual stereotype, and I should take better advantage of the fact that I’m a homosexual and keep doing things the way I want to do them. Second, she said there are a lot of people who would trade places with me in a heartbeat.

I told my therapist that really, I’m the only one judging me. No one else in my life is giving me shit for anything. (She said this was partly the result of my having “cleaned house” with my relationships.) Then she said, “Yeah, you’re performing for an audience of one, and you’re a tough critic.” Then she added,

“You need to do some serious crowd control.”

After the Netflix documentary about the muscle gods, I went for a run for the first time in several weeks. Normally I would shoot for a solid hour of running, but–in the vein of being gentle with myself–I stopped when my body said to (around thirty minutes) and walked the rest of the way home. Feeling motivated, I sautéed some chicken and spinach for dinner. Well–apparently–it takes more than thirty minutes of cardio and one healthy meal to get on the cover of a fitness magazine, since no one’s contacted me about a photo shoot despite the fact that I’m right here metabolizing as we speak, in my underwear no less.

In addition to Netflix, I’ve been bingeing on self-help reading material lately. For a while I’ve been working through Pema Chodron’s Comfortable with Uncertainty, earlier this week I finished Childhood Disrupted (about how stress in childhood contributes to illness in later life), and I just started a book about a therapy technique called EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing). I also have two other books cued up to read, but–suffice it to say–it’s a lot even for me. Anyway, part of this is my love of learning, but another part is the feeling that I need to change or fix something.

Specifically, me.

When my therapist and I talked about this today, she said that the desire for constant self-improvement carries with it a certain feeling of “I’m not good enough the way I am.” Pema Chodron refers to this as a subtle form of self-aggression. So I’m working on my relationship with my inner critic. Clearly he’s had his say, and it’s gotten us this far. But my therapist is right–it’s time for some crowd control. If I want to change something, fine. But I can do it because I love me and want my life to be different, not because there’s a problem with me right here, right now. In this moment, I’m okay. (I’m about to get in a hot tub.) But really–in this moment, we are all okay.