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An Open Letter to Sorority Girls Who Like to Work Out at My Gym

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Dear Sorority Girls,

Let me just take this opportunity to welcome you home for the summer. I know college has been tough, what with the Pimps and Prostitutes socials, the tanning bed sessions, and the binging and purging. I’m so glad you have a few months to kick back and relax.

And I encourage you to really relax, girls. I mean, why get all sweaty and gross watching re-runs of The Bachelor on a YMCA treadmill when you could be deepening that tan beside your daddy’s backyard pool? Besides, the fact that not one of you weighs more than ninety pounds has me a little concerned for your well-being. Forgive me, but all that ellipticizing just doesn’t seem safe.

All right, all right. So maybe it’s just sour grapes on my part. But the fact is, I once loved the YMCA because, unlike my old gym (a nasty hole filled with tanned, toned freaks of nature), the people who go there to work out are all shapes and sizes. After four long months, I managed to sweat off fifteen pounds and started feeling pretty damn good about myself when I worked out each day—at least, until school let out and the gym became Greek Central.

Now, I’m hopelessly outnumbered by Buffanys and Ainsleys and Chelseighs and Mary Margarets, impossibly thin and impeccably made up, with tiny Deltas tattooed on their precious ankles and tee-shirts that read “Booze Cruise!” and “Get your Sister a Mister!” Sandwiched on the Stair Masters between two ponytailed co-eds in size zero sportswear, I’ve transformed from Twiggy into Ziggy—all without gaining a single freaking pound.

Perhaps we could work something out, ladies. If you will all agree to stay away from the Y between the hours of three and four p.m. while I work out, I will promise in return to teach any of you who are interested how to avoid sleeping with a man on the first date. Do we have a deal?

Cordially,

Lindsay

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