THIS IS A "FITNESS" CHALLENGE.

So, I have been going to the gym. Now, don't get your panties in a twist. I am a die-hard, never-been-varsity, fuck-up of an athlete. But sometimes a girl needs an endorphin high, and running from my room to the dining hall to get to the food faster just wasn't cutting it.

Here is what I now remember about gyms. THEY ARE BORING AS HELL. I like running outside, but here on the Main Line that's practically a death wish.

Our gym is basically what I have always been as an athlete-it has a lot of heart, some grit, it just barely gets the job done. But it has no flash, no genius, no self-awareness.

It has all the technological advances and charming decor of your basic prison camp. It is roughly the size and shape of your average cereal box, and not the good kind. The generic brand your mom tries to convince you is just as good, but you know, YOU KNOW, that it will never be as good.
Due to the absence of any sort of diversion in the form of multimedia (read: no TVs, magazines from 1994) I must grimly gaze ahead at the austere, mile high letters of BRYN MAWR ATHLETICS. I know, I know, now you know where I "go" to "school." So, a warning, in the immortal words of Ms. Jeannie Butler. "Excuse me. If whoever's in the house is still in the house, I'd like you to know that I have just called the police. If you have any brains whatsoever, you'll get your ass out of my house real quick. I'd also like to add that I have my father's gun, and a scorching case of herpes."

So, this is what I do, and this is the challenge I present to you, all 5 of my loyal readers: I MAKE WORDS OUT OF THESE WORDS. I have about twenty, twenty-five so far. How many can you make?

Here is the best song to work out to, EVER.

And here is a little pop confection I CANNOT GET OUT MY HEAD.

A POX ON YOU JASON MRAZ, IF THAT'S EVEN YOUR REAL NAME.