I am wearing a jean jacket (bet you wish your mom hadn’t given yours away now!). But it is July 5th. What is with this crazy weather?

But that’s not what I came here to talk about. I’m here to regale you with my visit to the Washed-Up-Trophy-Wives gym in NYC. That’s not what it’s called officially (too long to embroider on the towels), but it was a really fascinating people study. The gym was about 85% ladies (which I like, because men are creepy at the gym) and they were all about 65 years old. And about 95 pounds. And weighed down by an additional 10 pounds of shiny gold jewelry. And 2 pounds of makeup. And 1/2 pound of designer gymwear. This still brings the average weight to only 107.5 pounds, which is gross on anyone who is not a fourth-grader.

It was astonishing/horrifying/gleefully sick to watch. Because these washed up trophy wives aren’t there to work out. They are there to stretch and bitch and gossip about each other (oh the things, the things I learned about Jeanine Weissman, the poor dear) and never say excuse me or thank you.

The best revenge is biking a solid 10 miles (YES I DID, BOOYA) and then sauntering your healthy, young body past them. Because no matter how much money they have, it can’t buy that joie de vivre I’ve got.

PS. I also saw an obese nine year old with his personal trainer. That shit is bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S. Go outside and play little boy. Do you need a trainer, or do you just need to be locked outside for a few hours?

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