The first time I see a jogger smiling, I'll consider it.

Host: The morning broke pale and cold, the kind that carries a faint metallic smell before the city fully wakes. The park stretched wide and damp, its pathways slick with last night’s rain. A few early joggers cut through the mist, their breath forming quick, fleeting ghosts in the air.

Jack and Jeeny stood by a crooked bench, watching them. Jack held a coffee in one hand, his coat collar turned up against the wind; Jeeny cradled a paper bagel, its steam curling like an offering to the gray sky.

Somewhere nearby, a dog barked — sharp, impatient. The city was waking, reluctantly, like a tired god.

Jeeny: “Joan Rivers once said, ‘The first time I see a jogger smiling, I’ll consider it.’”

Jack: (smirking) “God, I love her. Brutal honesty disguised as comedy. That’s a woman who understood the art of not pretending to enjoy suffering.”

Host: Jack’s eyes followed a man sprinting by, his face red and taut, like someone fighting off a silent storm. Jeeny smiled faintly, the kind that mixes humor with pity.

Jeeny: “You see? That’s the thing. Everyone’s out here running — from their calories, their past, their regrets — and no one looks happy doing it. We call it ‘self-improvement,’ but it’s just another form of punishment.”

Jack: “Exactly. Humanity’s addicted to struggle. We can’t just exist — we have to earn our peace. The gym, the diet, the deadlines, the meditation apps. All these rituals of control. It’s like we’re terrified of stillness.”

Jeeny: “Or terrified of ourselves. Stillness means facing what we’ve been running from.”

Host: The sunlight finally broke through the clouds, a thin blade of gold slicing the mist. It caught the dew on the grass, made the world shimmer for a breath before fading again.

Jack: “You think Joan was joking, but she wasn’t. She was talking about life itself. We glorify struggle because we’re afraid of joy. Nobody trusts happiness — it feels unserious. Like if you’re not exhausted, you’re not trying hard enough.”

Jeeny: “But she also meant something deeper. She saw through the culture of perfection — the obsession with self-discipline, self-care, self-everything. We’ve turned self-love into a job description. And we’re all terrible employees.”

Jack: (laughing) “That’s good. Yeah, we’re all unpaid interns in the corporate machine of self-improvement.”

Host: The laughter hung in the air, a warm sound against the morning chill. A jogger slowed near them, panting, face flushed, checking his smartwatch with desperate devotion. Jack raised his coffee cup in mock salute.

Jack: “See? The man’s dying by degrees, but he’ll call it achievement.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because we’ve replaced meaning with measurement. If you can’t count it, it doesn’t count. Miles, calories, followers — all the same illusion.”

Jack: “You know what I think? Running used to be for escape. Now it’s for validation.”

Jeeny: “And maybe both are prisons.”

Host: A faint breeze stirred the trees, scattering the smell of wet leaves and burnt coffee. The sound of sneakers on gravel filled the silence, a rhythm both ancient and absurd.

Jack: “When Joan said that line, she wasn’t just mocking fitness. She was mocking the idea that pain makes you noble. We’re a civilization addicted to discomfort — we wear it like proof of worth. If you’re smiling, people think you’re lazy.”

Jeeny: “Because joy doesn’t sell. Misery does. Diet plans, therapy apps, new religions — all of them feed on the belief that we’re broken and must be fixed.”

Jack: “And the worst part? We volunteer for it. No tyrant needed. We run our own treadmills now.”

Host: Jeeny took a slow sip of coffee, her gaze following a young woman jogging past, her ponytail swinging like a metronome. There was something hypnotic about her — her eyes fixed forward, her expression blank, as if she were chasing not time, but the illusion of it.

Jeeny: “You ever notice, Jack, how nobody runs toward something? Always away. Away from aging, away from guilt, away from silence. Maybe that’s why they don’t smile — you can’t when you’re running from ghosts.”

Jack: “And yet, we worship them for it. We post quotes about discipline and hustle as if exhaustion were enlightenment.”

Jeeny: “Because it feels safer than contentment. Stillness is rebellion. You sit still long enough, and you start asking dangerous questions — like, ‘What am I actually doing this for?’”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint aroma of pancakes from a nearby diner. A jogger, middle-aged, stopped by the fountain, hands on knees, gasping for air. He looked around, caught sight of the diner sign, and for a moment — just one — he smiled.

Jeeny saw it first.

Jeeny: (softly) “There. Did you see it?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “He smiled.”

Jack: “Probably just thought about quitting.”

Jeeny: “Or about pancakes.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Host: They both laughed again — quieter this time, with that shared warmth that comes from seeing the absurdity in everything sacred. The light caught in Jeeny’s hair, a faint shimmer of gold against the gray world.

Jeeny: “You know, Joan Rivers made laughter her rebellion. She refused to make misery glamorous. She mocked suffering — not because she didn’t understand it, but because she understood it too well.”

Jack: “Right. The woman faced tragedy, surgery, death — and still made jokes about joggers. That’s not comedy; that’s philosophy in sequins.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. She was saying, ‘If you can’t laugh at it, it owns you.’ That’s freedom — not running faster, not getting stronger — just refusing to be humiliated by life.”

Host: The sun finally broke through the clouds, spreading over the park in full. The joggers kept running, their movements mechanical, purposeful, endless. But the light softened everything — even the sweat, even the struggle.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what smiling joggers are — people who’ve stopped caring about winning. They’ve made peace with absurdity.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the secret Joan was hiding inside the joke. The first time she saw a jogger smiling, she wouldn’t just consider running — she’d consider hope.”

Host: The two stood quietly for a moment, watching the world move — people chasing, striving, surviving. The wind carried laughter from the playground nearby, a sound lighter than ambition, purer than victory.

Jack: “So what do you think, Jeeny? You gonna start jogging?”

Jeeny: “Only if the world starts laughing.”

Jack: “Then I guess we’ll walk.”

Host: They turned down the path, slow, deliberate, their shadows long and soft behind them. The park buzzed with the noise of movement, but they walked against it — calm, unhurried, two souls choosing joy over effort.

And as they disappeared into the rising sunlight, the city seemed to exhale —
as if it, too, was tired of running.

Because in the end,
freedom isn’t found in the sprint,
but in the moment you stop —
and finally, quietly, smile.