Eat yo salad, no dessert

Last night, still firmly on my couch four minutes past when ballet was scheduled to start (remember how planning is not at the top of the life skills chart?), I decided my living room was a totally appropriate place to mount a fitness quest.

Such a thing was possible because, when I asked myself, “Do you have tools? Can you fix this right now?”…


…the answer was affirmative. Behold the totally hip tools of fitness.

You do not use jars of marinara as weights while grooving to a Jane Fonda video? Oh.

It was a totally fine situation, except that: (a) my step-touches are perhaps a touch too loud for our downstairs neighbors, and (b) sweaty palms + glass jars = constantly impending disaster. They never actually flew out of my hands and decorated our walls with Jackson Pollack-esque tomato stains, but you worry about these things. Or, I do.

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