Nothing says wealth more than a nice pair of guns.

Here in this upper middle class suburb, the women show up to parent functions at the school flashing their perfectly toned arms in sleeve-less dresses. During the day, they walk around town in yoga pants and tight shirts that show off their tight core muscles. A good part of the morning is spent at spin, hot yoga, and strength training classes.

These women are ready for battle with their tattoos peeking out from under their sleeves and an arm full of  leather wrist cuffs. It’s a new standard of beauty that requires a signficant amount of time and self-control. A bottle of blond dye and a curling iron isn’t enough.

I have entered into a new, delightful period of self-hate for my aging body, so I’ve been stepping up my own exercise regime. For the past year, I’ve gone to the gym for a fast walk on the treadmill a few times per week, while watching reality TV re-runs. But that half-hearted workout is no longer doing the trick. So, I’m doing a spin class on Sunday mornings and running the two miles, instead of walking them. I’m rethinking my routines to make sure that exercise is no longer last on the list of priorities.

Exercise is, of course, a good thing. I feel better when I’m strong. My thighs ache right now, and I kind of like it. But there is a line that can be crossed. Sometimes, muscles can become another way to display conspicuous consumption. One really should have other priorities in life than self-maintenance. Luckily, I’m too lazy to really put too much time into my exercise regimen, so there’s little danger of crossing that line.