So, I'm at the gym, a prisoner to the treadmill for another 15 minutes and in the middle of a jam session with my favorite song from the Thriller album, "Wanna be startin' something."
I'm in the second chorus of "Ma Ma Sa, Ma Ma Coo Sa," (And yes, I'm the one at the gym next to you singing on the treadmill. You know you want to sing along with Michael Jackson) when I see one of the thinnest women I've ever seen.
As the stick-figure works through machine after machine working with a trainer, I wonder, "What the heck does SHE need a trainer for?"
I've come to the conclusion that she's taking up valuable trainer time fat folks like myself really need, and decide the gym should establish a "jiggly" rule.
If you don't have anything jiggly, besides the obvious female parts, you can't work out with a trainer. No exceptions.
There. Establishing the "jiggly" rule made me feel better. Now, back to Michael.
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