I've exercised with women so thin that buzzards followed them to

Host: The morning was mercilessly bright, the kind of sunlight that exposed every flaw and shadow. The gym buzzed with the clatter of weights, the whir of machines, and the steady rhythm of music designed to drown out self-doubt.

Mirrors lined the walls, reflecting not just bodies, but insecurities — sweat, strain, and comparison caught in endless loops. The air was thick with vanilla protein powder and the ghost of perfume that tried to mask the odor of struggle.

Jack stood by the treadmill, towel draped around his neck, observing the room with his usual mix of cynicism and fatigue. Jeeny was beside him, tying her hair into a ponytail, her expression half amused, half exasperated.

Jack: “Erma Bombeck once said, ‘I’ve exercised with women so thin that buzzards followed them to their cars.’”
(He smirks, wiping sweat from his forehead.)
Jack: “That’s not a joke — that’s a warning. This place isn’t about health, Jeeny. It’s about punishment — disguised as discipline.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “And yet you’re here, aren’t you? Sweating with the rest of the martyrs.”

Host: A group of women passed, their faces painted in determination and lip gloss. Their bodies were machines — perfect, precise, but haunted. A trainer shouted encouragement in a tone that sounded more like command.

Jack: “I come here to observe, not to worship. This is the new church, Jeeny — and the altar is a mirror. People don’t want to be fit; they want to be approved of.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s too harsh. Some of them just want to feel strong, to feel alive. The body can be a temple, Jack — not a cage.”

Jack: “A temple built on shame. You think all these people woke up one day and said, ‘I want to be healthy’? No. They looked in the mirror and said, ‘I want to be loved.’”

Host: The music shifted, a pounding beat that matched the rhythm of bodies in motion. The sunlight through the windows shimmered on the sweat of discipline, fear, and hope.

Jeeny: “Love isn’t wrong to want, Jack. It’s what we all chase — just through different means. Some use food, some use success, some use the treadmill. But maybe it’s not the chasing that’s broken — it’s the reason we run.”

Jack: “And what reason is that?”

Jeeny: “To escape the voice that tells us we’re not enough. The industry that profits off that voice. The advertisements, the magazines, the ‘before and after’ stories — they don’t sell fitness, Jack. They sell insecurity.”

Jack: “So what you’re saying is — it’s not about health, it’s about hunger. And not the kind you can feed.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s a spiritual famine. People are starving for acceptance in a world that tells them thin equals worthy.”

Host: The sound of a weight stack crashed in the distance — a metallic punctuation to her words. A woman in neon leggings collapsed onto a mat, laughing, her friend filming it on her phone.

Jack: (dryly) “Look at that. Even exhaustion has become content. Nothing’s private anymore — not even self-loathing.”

Jeeny: “You think you’re any better? You judge them for trying. For at least showing up. Maybe they’re not all vain, Jack. Maybe they just want to feel visible — to themselves, if no one else.”

Jack: “Visibility’s the addiction of this century. We work out, post about it, hashtag it — just to prove we exist. We’re not training bodies anymore, Jeeny. We’re training identities.”

Jeeny: “But can you blame them? The world tells us to be flawless, productive, beautiful. It’s a performance — and we’re all in the cast.”

Jack: “Yeah, and Erma Bombeck wrote the truth with a smile. Those ‘buzzard women’ — they weren’t just thin, they were dying for validation. Every rib a prayer, every mile a confession.”

Host: A pause — the hum of the machines filled the space, steady and mechanical, like the heartbeat of a culture that couldn’t rest. Jack looked at his reflection in the mirror — a face carved by sarcasm, but tired, lonely, human.

Jeeny: (gently) “What do you see, Jack, when you look at that mirror?”

Jack: “A man who’s tired of being sold — food, faith, beauty, worth. Everything’s a marketplace, Jeeny. Even our bodies have price tags now.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the only way to fight that is to reclaim the body. Not as a billboard, but as a home. To say, ‘I don’t owe you perfection. I owe myself peace.’”

Jack: “Peace doesn’t trend.”

Jeeny: “No, but it heals.”

Host: The music shifted again — slower now, almost melancholic. The morning crowd was thinning, the buzz easing into a quiet hum.

Jack: “You think the buzzards still follow them, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But not because they’re thin — because they’re dying for the wrong reasons.”

Jack: (after a long silence) “Then what’s the right reason to run, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “To chase your breath, not your image.”

Host: The camera would have lingered then — on the mirrors, on the reflections, on the ghosts of every body that had ever sweated, fought, or wept in that room. The morning light moved, catching the edges of truth in the glass.

Jack picked up his towel, looking at Jeeny with a quiet respect, a rare moment of surrender.

Jack: “Maybe today, I’ll run without the buzzards watching.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe today, you’ll finally be free.”

Host: The door swung open, a gust of fresh air flooding the room. For the first time, the mirror didn’t just reflect a body — it reflected a choice.

And as they stepped out into the sunlight, the city no longer looked like a judgment. It looked like a beginning — imperfect, strong, and beautifully human.