Our children are obese, either have or being threatened by

Host: The gymnasium lights flickered overhead, humming with the tired rhythm of neglect. Rows of treadmills stood still, their screens dark, mirrors reflecting nothing but dust and disinterest. The air smelled faintly of rubber, sweat, and nostalgia — the ghost of motion in a room built for it.

It was long after hours. The city outside had gone to sleep, but here, under the harsh fluorescent glow, two figures lingered like an echo of what once mattered.

Jack sat on a worn bench, a water bottle rolling idly between his hands. His eyes were tired, shadowed by something heavier than exhaustion. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against a punching bag. Her long black hair clung to her temples, her breath slow but steady — as if the room itself were teaching her patience.

Jeeny: “Richard Simmons once said, ‘Our children are obese, either have or being threatened by diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and not socially adjusting properly to others because of a lack of fitness.’”

Jack: half-smiles, bitterly “Trust Simmons to turn heartbreak into cardio.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t being dramatic. He was sounding an alarm. A warning we still don’t hear.”

Jack: leans forward “You think a treadmill can fix loneliness, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “No. But movement can remind people they’re alive.”

Jack: “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? The world’s collapsing under convenience. Nobody runs unless something’s chasing them — usually debt or despair.”

Jeeny: softly “Or both.”

Host: The air-conditioning unit clicked off, and silence expanded in its place — vast, sterile, unsettling. Outside, through the glass wall, the parking lot’s lamplight shimmered against the wet asphalt, a reflection of the modern malaise: full bellies, empty souls.

Jeeny reached for a basketball nearby and began to roll it gently across the floor, the soft sound of rubber on linoleum punctuating her words.

Jeeny: “We talk about obesity like it’s a disease of the body. But it’s a disease of disconnection.”

Jack: raises an eyebrow “From what — kale?”

Jeeny: “From purpose. From community. From each other. Our kids don’t play outside anymore. They play inside their screens.”

Jack: nods slowly “Yeah. Virtual victories. Real stagnation.”

Jeeny: “You remember when running wasn’t a ‘workout’? It was just running — chasing each other, racing the wind, laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe.”

Jack: “I remember when laughter didn’t need Wi-Fi.”

Host: The lights buzzed, then dimmed slightly, as if the room were exhaling. The basketball rolled to a stop, resting between them like an unspoken truth.

Jack: “You really think fitness can fix this world? The diseases, the diets, the disconnect?”

Jeeny: “Not by itself. But it’s a start. You can’t heal the spirit if the body’s forgotten how to move.”

Jack: “You sound like an optimist with a gym membership.”

Jeeny: “No. I sound like someone who’s tired of watching people mistake comfort for happiness.”

Jack: leans back, eyes narrowing “You ever think maybe comfort’s all we have left? The world’s too heavy to lift otherwise.”

Jeeny: gently “That’s the illusion, Jack. The heavier the world gets, the more it needs people who can carry themselves.”

Jack: “So exercise is philosophy now?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Maybe it always was.”

Host: The clock above the door ticked past midnight. Somewhere in the far corner, a single elliptical still blinked — its green light pulsing like a heartbeat refusing to quit.

Jeeny stood, stretching, the movement graceful and quiet. Jack watched her for a moment, his cynicism flickering into something softer — respect, maybe. Or memory.

Jeeny: “When Simmons said that, he wasn’t just talking about fat. He was talking about neglect — of the self, of health, of connection.”

Jack: “You make it sound moral.”

Jeeny: “It is. Taking care of your body isn’t vanity. It’s gratitude.”

Jack: “Gratitude for what?”

Jeeny: “For being alive — when so many forget they are.”

Jack: sighs, looking at his hands “You think I’ve forgotten?”

Jeeny: “I think you’ve stopped feeling it.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe I got tired of watching people sprint in circles.”

Jeeny: “Then walk straight. Even slow motion is progress.”

Host: The rain outside had stopped. The city lights shimmered against the glass like constellations, refracted through human fatigue.

Jack stood, his reflection merging with Jeeny’s in the mirrored wall — two figures blurred by perspective, standing in the same place but seeing different worlds.

Jack: “You know what I see when I look around here? Machines. Rows and rows of them. We used to move because we were free. Now we move because we’re guilty.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe guilt’s trying to remind us what freedom felt like.”

Jack: “You really think it’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think simplicity is what we’ve lost. Health used to be about living. Now it’s a brand, a subscription, a punishment for pleasure.”

Jack: “So what’s the answer?”

Jeeny: smiles softly “The same as it’s always been — balance. Discipline without cruelty. Joy without excess. Movement with meaning.”

Jack: half-laughs “You sound like you’re quoting Aristotle.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m quoting common sense.”

Host: The lights dimmed to their night setting. The faint glow of the exit sign washed over them — a soft, unwavering red.

Jack picked up the basketball and bounced it once. The sound echoed through the empty space, crisp and alive. He smiled, the kind of smile that forgets to be defensive.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe the body remembers what the mind’s forgotten.”

Jeeny: “It always does. The heartbeat’s older than the thought.”

Jack: nods slowly “So we start moving again?”

Jeeny: “One step. One breath. One honest laugh at a time.”

Host: They stood in the quiet, the hum of electricity blending with the faint rhythm of rain returning outside. The night felt lighter somehow — not because the world had changed, but because, for the first time in a long time, they were awake inside it.

Host: As they walked toward the door, the reflection of the exit sign glowed red in the mirror — bold, human, persistent.

And in that reflection, the truth of Simmons’ words pulsed through the room like a heartbeat long neglected:

We are not dying from hunger.
We are dying from stillness.

Not starving for food —
but starving for motion, for connection, for joy.

Our children are not broken by what they eat,
but by what they no longer do.

And if there is salvation left for us,
it will not come from the treadmill or the diet plan —
but from the rediscovery of our own pulse.

Because movement,
at its simplest,
is remembrance:

of vitality,
of freedom,
of life that was never meant
to sit still.