When Self-Improvement Collides With Living

Betterment is great, but contentment is better

I was on my way to the frozen yogurt shop recently when I spotted a ripped, shirtless dude jogging effortlessly down the street in 105-degree heat.

Here in southern Nevada, our summers get hot. We have little humidity, but even dry heat can lead to dehydration, severe sunburn, heat exhaustion, and heatstroke.

Sensible folks like myself retreat to the pool, indoor air-conditioning, and frozen yogurt shops. But those over-achieving fitness buffs ruin everything.

It’s hard to enjoy your frozen yogurt with hot fudge when Mr. Sixpack-abs trots by tirelessly like a gazelle. It’s hard to tell, but is he even sweating?

And last week, whilst walking my dog in the shady area of the park, two supremely fit ladies ran past us. They were running uphill, in direct sunlight (it was 105 degrees) conversing effortlessly. Not the slightest bit out of breath.

Look, I’m all for fitness and self-improvement.

I stick to mostly a Mediterranean diet, walk my dogs, and hit the air-conditioned gym. I’ve managed to stay trim, and my weight is close to what it was in my university days.

But years of police work, old jujitsu injuries, a discectomy in 2008, and general aging deny me the physicality needed to train like an Olympian.

But then, even if I could, I’m not sure I would.

Oatmeal, prunes, and mineral water

Years ago, the late author and polemicist Christopher Hitchens wrote an entertaining piece for Vanity Fair titled, “On the Limits of Self-Improvement.”

Hitchens’ essay opens with a self-deprecating and humorous assessment of his physical state:

“The fanglike teeth are what is sometimes called ‘British’: sturdy, if unevenly spaced, and have turned an alarming shade of yellow and brown, attributable perhaps to strong coffee as well as to nicotine, Pinot Noir, and other potations.”

Brilliant though he was, Hitchens was also a heavy drinker and smoker (throat cancer would eventually claim his life). He spent his days reading, writing, drinking, smoking, traveling, and debating. His mind could do mental gymnastics, but his body was another story.

Hitchens’ essay goes on to brutally describe the rest of his body:

“Proceeding south and passing over an almost vanished neck that cannot bear the strain of a fastened top button or the constriction of a tie, we come to a thickly furred chest that, together with a layer of flab, allows the subject to face winter conditions with an almost ursine insouciance. The upper part of this chest, however, has slid deplorably down to the mezzanine floor, and it is our opinion that without his extraordinary genital endowment the subject would have a hard time finding the damn thing, let alone glimpsing it from above.”

Hitchens describes his “lower slopes” as “a somewhat grotesque combination of plump thighs and skinny shins, the arduous descent culminating in feet which are at once much too short and a good deal too chunky.”

Hitchens’ agreement with Vanity Fair was that he attend an Executive De-Stress Treatment at a high-end spa, and then write an essay about it. The essay’s accompanying photos of him in an exfoliating facial mask (with a cigarette in his mouth) and watching his yoga instructor on the beach are priceless.

Hitchens escaped from the spa’s evening meal of oatmeal, prunes, and mineral water to the nearby Bella Vista restaurant at the Biltmore, for cocktail hour and a smoke. After a good night’s sleep, he was back on the beach for more yoga, followed by daring sessions on the treadmill and weightlifting.

Hitchens endured rigorous detoxification, an Avocado and Citrus body wrap, and even an 80-minute fitness scrub and massage. But in the end, Hitchens knew that all this health and fitness stuff wasn’t for him.

He wrote:

“The trouble with bad habits is that they are mutually reinforcing. And, just as a bank won’t lend you money unless you are too rich to need it, exercise is a pastime only for those who are already slender and physically fit. It just isn’t so much fun when you have a marked tendency to wheeze and throw up, and a cannonball of a belly sloshing around inside the baggy garments.”

Hitchens’ world was cerebral, not physical.

He loved books, ideas, writing, debating, and then settling into his evening cocktails, cigarettes, and general conviviality. As he notes near the end of his essay:

“In my case, most of my bad habits are connected with the only way I know to make a living. In order to keep reading and writing, I need the junky energy that scotch can provide, and the intense short-term concentration that nicotine can help supply. To be crouched over a book or a keyboard, with these conditions of mingled reverie and alertness, is my highest happiness.”

The last words struck me. “My highest happiness.”

What about our highest happiness?

Years ago, when I was still working in law enforcement, several colleagues discovered a popular fitness program called P90-X.

There were frequent commercials back then on television for P90-X featuring fitness guru Tony Horton. Several of my police colleagues bought the instructional videos and were religiously working out in their living rooms and flexing in their bathroom mirrors.

“Yeah, but do you enjoy it?” I asked them.

Some said yes, and some said no. And while many of them did see fitness and appearance gains, they all eventually abandoned P90-X. Most of them returned to the camaraderie of sports and gym workouts.

One coworker told me, “P90-X works, but after a while, I dreaded those workouts in my living room. They were boring. And they sometimes took me away from my family time.”

Today, the Internet is awash with workout programs and fitness gurus selling washboard abs, muscle supplements, and a philosophy of hardcore fitness. Not to mention the diabetes medications that have been found to suppress appetites and help with weight loss.

No doubt, we all want to look our best.

But what about our “highest happiness?” What about our intellectual and spiritual needs? There’s a line somewhere between healthy fitness and abject narcissism. A difference between healthy living and relentless health obsession.

Self-improvement is fine, but not when it collides with personal contentment. Betterment is great, but contentment is better.

My father used to say, “All things in moderation.”

I think he’s right. We sometimes take things too far. Even things that are good for us. We forget to strike a balance.

We forget about our highest happiness.

A symptom rather than a solution

The self-improvement industry isn’t just about physical fitness.

It encompasses far more, including emotional health, relationships, money, careers, etc. Every time I visit Instagram or Youtube, a barrage of self-help programs and courses flash across my screen.

And to be honest, I’ve written my fair share of self-help articles.

At some point, I grew bored with it all. I wanted to write about deeper things. So I stopped writing self-help listicles and illustrating them with my cartoons. I focus now on deeper life lessons, and more profound issues that we all face in life. Love, loss, purpose, and meaning.

Sooner or later, people realize that there’s more to life than worrying about six-pack abs, perfect relationships, and getting rich. Pursuing such things becomes a kind of unhealthy addiction.

An article in Forbes notes:

“Understand that, when it comes to self-help, it’s easy to get caught up in a cycle of books, seminars, and videos without really addressing the issues in your life. It can become an addiction of its own. Often, seeking out self-help content is a symptom rather than a solution.”

I’ve found the same holds true for our creative passions.

I used to buy endless art magazines, courses, workshops, and videos in my quest to become a better writer and artist. And while I certainly benefited here and there, the returns diminished.

Because in the end, my best creative work could only be found deep within myself.

I had to listen to my heart and focus on what my soul was trying to tell me. Much like Christopher Hitchens listened to the whispers of his spirit. He knew he couldn’t do it all, so he built his world around his capacious mind.

Ask yourself, what is your “highest happiness?”

It would be a merrier world

Family is my highest happiness, followed by my creative passions.

Yes, I eat right and workout, to maintain a decent level of fitness and self-esteem about my appearance. But I follow my father’s advice about “everything in moderation.”

I don’t fixate on my diet. And while I may envy that jogger with the six-pack abs, I still enjoy my frozen yogurt with hot fudge.

I’d rather focus my greatest energy and attention on my family and writing because they provide a deep sense of contentment and fulfillment in my life. And because I love both my family and my creative passions, they’re easy to sustain. They’re not work.

Life is meant to be lived.

Endless perfectionism and fixation over appearance, relationships, and wealth seldom lead to lasting happiness. They blind us to deeper, more important things. Like our loved ones, creative passions, and spiritual needs.

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”—J.R.R. Tolkien

There’s nothing wrong with self-improvement. Just don’t get carried away. Remember to focus on your highest happiness.

Betterment is great, but contentment is better.

(First published here)

Before you go

I’m John P. Weiss. I write elegant stories and essays about life. If you enjoyed this piece, check out my free weekend newsletter, The Saturday Letters.