I had to wrestle a jar of spaghetti sauce open once. Those lids are hard enough for anyone to open but especially impossible for someone with chronic muscle deterioration. I sweated and pounded on the lid with a variety of kitchen implements, like can openers and knives, and then moved on to the real competition of me against machine-sealing technology. When the softening power of hot water failed to separate lid from jar, I realized only my strength could overcome the hunger that was deepening as the moments were passing. Even the wrench I sought to employ failed to get a grip. Things were getting dramatic and intense as I knelt on the floor, my whole body wrapped around this ridiculous jar of Extra Thick and Zesty. This was supposed to be one of those thrown-together meals and there I was, spending 40 minutes wrestling on the floor with a jar of heat-and-eat sauce. But then — when I strained my arm forward, I felt my feet cross the finish line as that little safety pop-top popped. As I sat breathing hard over that pasta I was just about too tired to eat, I thought, That was quite a work-out.

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