The doctor who discovered this disorder says "social isolation" resulting from the diet is one warning sign. So take Mr. Pinto Bean from our above example. Chances are he's disgusted with other people's "impure," non-bean diets, so he posts a personal on Craigslist entitled "LOOKING 4 GOYA-MINDED WOMAN."
And since no one shares the rectitude required to eat beans 24/7, Mr. Bean spends the rest of his life alone, weeping as he farts, farting as he weeps.
Doesn't sound so bad ...
Imagine a world where every push-up tasted like a 1996 Dom Perignon, where every sweat droplet tickles your cheek like [Scarlett Johansson's denuded gazonga]*, where every bench press smells like a crisp $100 bill. If this is the world of the exercise addict, we want in.
* NOTE: Female readers, replace this phrase with [Antonio Banderas' Latin love lance].
The horrifying reality:
The compulsive exerciser gets no extraordinary high from working out. Rather, the addict is joylessly consumed by the minutiae of his or her routine and will often overtrain and eschew leisure time to feel the burn. These people work out until they create hormone imbalances, destroy their bones and, ironically, waste muscle.
We can blame the three P's for exercise addiction: Perfectionism, Poor body image and Phear of athletic Phailure.
Muscular dysmorphia (aka "bigorexia") is a similar problem. The bigorexic will be unsatisfied with his musculature until he is able to arm wrestle a mastodon, and will not stop until he is a veiny mass of trapezius. We can attribute bigorexia to the three G's: G.I. Joe body ideal, Gigantism and Gsteroids.