Month: April 2025

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Down the Rabbit Hole: Turning Our Bathroom into Wonderland

Written March 29, 2025

reviewed 4/5

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, my wife and I made an early pilgrimage to the sacred land of DIY dreams—Home Depot. Our mission? Paint samples. Our vision? A house reimagined through the lens of our favorite books and authors. First stop on this literary tour? The bathroom. Destination: Wonderland.

Yes, you heard right. We’re giving our bathroom an Alice in Wonderland makeover. My wife has been brewing this plan like a tea party with the Mad Hatter—delightful, slightly chaotic, and full of charm. The only thing that delayed the madness was the whirlwind of year-end busyness. But now that things have calmed down, she’s full steam ahead.

She’s already chosen a few color palettes—somewhere between “Mysterious Mushroom” and “Twilight Teacup”—and she’s got a new shower curtain that screams Wonderland… possibly literally. It’s whimsical, yes, but with a touch of “is this watching me?” about it. And while she loves the classic illustrations from the original book, the curtain looks like something the Queen of Hearts might use to hide a trapdoor.

The irony? My wife can’t stomach horror. She closes her eyes during mildly intense insurance commercials. And yet, here we are, about to paint the walls in colors that could double as names for Halloween nail polish.

Me? I’m oddly excited. After moving into this house, we’ve tackled a few projects ourselves—most notably turning the oversized storm shelter-slash-storage room into something halfway respectable. Half of it is now a functional storage space, complete with a sturdy wall shelves my wife designed like a woman possessed by the spirit of Marie Kondo meets MacGyver. That thing isn’t going anywhere.

Inside, we’ve stockpiled emergency gear: canned food, kombucha (because hipster emergencies are still emergencies), and other non-perishables. My wife, an accountant, often reminds me that even the fastest-growing companies crash when their inventory runs amok. She runs our pantry with the same logic. Minimalist? Not quite. Strategic and pragmatic? Absolutely.

Her quiet mission is turning this house into a haven—beautiful, yes, but with function tucked into every nook. She’s carving out cozy corners for reading, clean-lined spaces for writing, and nudging me gently toward making my workspace less “creative chaos” and more “well-oiled thinking machine.”

The book theme? That’s our shared guilty pleasure. Reading is our thing. So why not let it spill into the walls, quite literally? After Wonderland graces the bathroom, she already has plans to transport our dining room straight into The Great Gatsby. Yes, the Jazz Age is coming to dinner. Apparently, we even own a few paintings that “go with the theme.” Who knew?

So yes, it’s going to be a busy year. We’re not rushing. We’ll roll out the literary carpet one room at a time. Slowly but surely, like any good novel—chapter by chapter.

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Leaf It to Me: Adventures in Yard Work

Written March 23, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, I found myself engaged in a rare and noble quest: yard work. Not my usual weekend ritual, mind you. I typically leave the gardening to people with a stronger back and a greener thumb. But alas, when you live on a hill, gravity, and nature team up like villains in a buddy cop movie—always ready to make things harder than they need to be.

Now, our yard has a bit of a wild streak. If left alone, it doesn’t just grow—it plots. One year, we made the rookie mistake of letting the ivy do its thing. “It’ll look charming,” we said. “Like an English cottage!” What we got instead was a full-on plant invasion. The ivy crept up the side of our house like it was trying to break in. And since the exterior isn’t fully bricked, my wife was convinced it would start dismantling our home from the foundation up. We ended up yanking it off the wall like it owed us money and then spent the rest of the day cleaning up its leafy aftermath. Never again.

This week, my wife decided it was time to bring order to the front yard. She had asked me earlier to vacuum—yes, vacuum—the leaves from the front yard so she could tame some decorative plants that had begun asserting their independence. I agreed, of course, then promptly forgot. Saturday came and went in a blur of other tasks. Classic.

Luckily, the weather today was cooperative. My weather app promised rain… just not yet. So I suited up and got to it. Leaf vacuum in hand, I tackled the neglected zone while my wife charged in later with a weedwhacker, swinging it like a hedge-knight with a hedge-trimming sword. She’s been clearing weeds too—methodically, heroically, like she’s one step away from turning the whole place into a botanical museum.

Now, my wife is a loyal reader of Eat That Frog! by Brian Tracy. She’s constantly organizing, scheduling, and maximizing productivity. However, she claims she struggles with “putting things away,” though I think the real issue is her to-do list has more pages than War and Peace. When she blames herself for not getting everything done, I remind her we’re human, not calendar apps with arms.

Ironically, it was her beloved frog book that nudged me into action today. One of its golden rules? Don’t put off the tough stuff. So next time I’m assigned an oddball task, I’ll let my phone remember for me. Set a reminder. No excuses.

Because if you’re going to eat the frog, you may as well season it and serve it hot.

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Hiccoughs at Midnight: A Not-So-Glamorous Interlude

Written March 21, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Much too early this morning—just past the witching hour—I woke up not because of a nightmare nor an existential crisis but because of… a bursting bladder. Ah yes, the glamour of middle-of-the-night awakenings. After addressing that urgent issue, I thought I’d waltz right back to bed. But no. My body had other plans.

Enter: hiccoughs. Uninvited. Persistent. Loud enough to wake the dead—or in this case, my very patient wife. We both lay there, robbed of sleep, serenaded by the rhythmic hic-hic-hic of my diaphragm’s rebellion.

Now, let me be clear—these hiccoughs weren’t nearly as ferocious as the ones I endured post-surgery when they installed my peritoneal dialysis port. That episode deserves its own dramatic soundtrack. Back then, the hiccoughs were relentless, painful, and entirely uninterested in polite social norms like going away quietly.

Imagine having a tube snaking through your abdomen, fresh stitches in place, and then being hit with spasms every few seconds. It was like being punched in the gut repeatedly… by your own body. After several days of this hiccup horror show, we made the pilgrimage back to the Clinique, where my doctor—bless him—prodded my belly like it was a misbehaving piece of tech. Miraculously, it worked. Hiccoughs vanished. Poof. Like bad magic undone.

My wife, during this whole ordeal, was a cross between a temporary nurse and a stunt driver. She chauffeured me around with the care of someone transporting fragile antiques—because any bump or jolt translated into pain. I had to do peritoneal dialysis four times a day from home. Far safer than hemodialysis, but it is also a full-time gig. And since I had double vision from the stroke and hands as reliable as overcooked noodles, my wife did every single session. Not one infection. That’s a perfect score, folks.

So yes, last night’s hiccoughs were annoying. Yes, they cut into our precious sleep. But compared to my post-op hiccough saga? They were a gentle tap on the shoulder.

Now, why do these hiccoughs happen? The suspects are many: fizzy drinks, overeating, alcohol, emotional stress. I can confidently rule out gluttony and stress—I’m more of a small-portions-and-stoic kind of guy. My prime suspect? The weather. One day, we’re enjoying spring sunshine, the next, we’re back in a snow globe. My wife’s healthy system takes it in stride. Mine, not so much. Or maybe it was the full bladder. Who knows?

As long as the hiccoughs don’t stick around longer than 48 hours, I’m in the clear. Thankfully, they exited stage left before sunrise.

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Pushup Tuesday: A Tale of Perseverance and Pec Pec Glory

Written March 18, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Tuesdays are for pushing—literally. It’s the day I dedicate to pushups, and no, not the orange-flavored frozen kind (though that would be delightful). I recently learned that working the same muscle groups on back-to-back days isn’t all that effective—who knew muscles liked variety too?

So, Tuesday is all about the push. And boy, do I have a pushy goal: 50 pushups in one set. I’ve been flirting with that number for weeks, always coming up short by a few reps. Just a handful away. Maddening.

Once upon a time, I was that gymnast kid who could whip out pull-ups and pushups like it was recess. But then life threw a massive wrench—aka a brain stroke—into my plans. Suddenly, workouts weren’t even on the menu. For a while, waking up was the main event. I spent the early months either unconscious or living in a dreamy fog of naps and nurses.

In the long-term care facility, my goals were humbler: eat without assistance, sleep through the night, and make it to the washroom without drama. Glamorous? No. Necessary? Absolutely. After mastering those, I graduated to walking, then stairs. Eventually, pushups re-entered the scene, stage left.

Starting over was humbling. My muscles had vanished like socks in the dryer. But I began again. Slowly, consistently, and with enough stubbornness to rival a toddler refusing vegetables. Over the years, I climbed back up to almost 50 pushups. Almost. That word haunted me.

Until this morning.

Today, with a bit of grimacing and a lot of determination, I hit 50. One clean set. No collapsing. No swearing (well, not much). Just pure, triumphant effort. And let me tell you—after weeks of frustration, it felt like winning a mini-Olympics in my living room.

Now, I’m not raising the bar just yet. I’ll keep 50 as my goal until it feels like a warm-up. Then I’ll inch it up to 55. Might take a week or two—or more—but I’ll get there. One push at a time.

What I’ve learned is this: small victories matter. This is my personal Kaizen—steady, deliberate improvement. Over the years, I’ve gone from zero to 50. I’ve hit plateaus, adjusted goals, and made peace with slow progress. Sometimes, I aimed too high and had to scale back. Other times, I surprised myself.

But through it all, I’ve become more patient. And more hopeful. Because if I can rise from not walking to nailing 50 pushups… who knows what else is possible?

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Of Rainstorms, Sirens, and Stubborn Outlets: A Slice of Life from the Soggy Side

Written March 16, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Last night, the heavens threw a tantrum. I’m talking a full-blown, drama-queen, thunder-and-lightning kind of storm—the sort that leaves your backyard looking less like a lawn and more like a swampy film set for Jurassic Park: Suburban Edition.

Behind our house lies a charming little forest, complete with a babbling brook that usually plays it cool. But after this storm? That “babble” turned into a bold announcement. The creek puffed up its chest and swelled until it was clearly visible from our windows, showing off like it just got a promotion.

We adore our backyard woods. It’s like having our own private wildlife documentary on a loop. Deer tiptoe in like they own the place, birds tweet IRL (no app required), and opossums, squirrels, and foxes casually pass through like it’s a local pub. The deer, in particular, love nosing around the creek. My wife, despite having lived here for years—and despite living in Canada where deer are practically neighborhood regulars—still squeals with delight every time she spots one. It’s adorable, if a little confusing.

Speaking of confusion, allow me to introduce the sirens. Yes, those sirens—mystical creatures of folklore, or in our case, adorable tiny things allegedly residing in our stream. My wife heard about them from a coworker, who also grew up in this area and fondly recalled her childhood siren sightings as if they were no big deal. One picture later, my wife was enchanted. I, on the other hand, spend enough time outside doing yard work to claim I may have seen one myself—though it might’ve just been a toad with attitude.

And the forest drama doesn’t stop there. We’ve got armadillos waddling around like tiny tanks and, most recently, a skunk (which my wife charmingly called a “skank”—possibly a typo, possibly not) who created a tear gas situation in our backyard. It was… memorable. Still, my wife finds peace in watching all this wildlife wander by. She says it calms her, reminds her of camping trips from her youth, and helps her believe—at least for a moment—that humans and animals might just be able to share the Earth peacefully despite our talent for wrecking the environment.

Now, onto the domestic front: the storm had a bonus gift for us. It decided to mess with our bathroom’s GFCI outlet—the one we rely on for our trusty water flosser. Of course, the circuit tripped and then, in classic GFCI fashion, refused to reset. My wife, unwilling to break her streak of impeccable dental hygiene, marched off to another part of the house with a working outlet like a flossing warrior on a mission.

Meanwhile, we’re both holding out hope that the outlet magically decides to cooperate once the rain stops—because clearly, that’s how electricity works, right? If not, I’ll have to MacGyver the situation with an extension cord long enough to plug into the next zip code. Failing that, it’s time to bring in a professional, AKA an electrician, who will hopefully diagnose the issue and not laugh too hard at our over-engineered flosser workaround.

So, to sum up: the storm flooded our yard, teased out any hiding local cryptids, and picked a fight with our bathroom outlet. But hey, at least the deer are happy.

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When Running Slaps You With a Reality Check (But You Learn to Laugh Anyway)

Written March 13, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday’s run? Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a Rocky-movie montage moment. My pace was dragging, my energy was shot, and the only thing sprinting was my inner critic. I pushed myself hard—maybe too hard—and when the numbers didn’t reflect the effort, I ended up in a full-on sulk spiral. Funny how chasing a goal with everything you’ve got can sometimes leave you feeling like you’ve been chasing your own tail.

Enter my wife, voice of reason, and resident bookworm. She told me about a book she reviewed—an advanced reader copy, no less. The book pointed out something profound: People often give up on their goals not because they lack motivation but because they’re too attached to the outcome. Oof. Guilty as charged. The same part of our brain that processes disappointment also houses our drive. So when that number on the scale or running app doesn’t look pretty, it punches our motivation in the gut.

Which explains why so many well-meaning folks throw in the towel on fitness goals. Or weight-loss goals. Or, say, not-treating-your-watch-like-a-judge goals like me.

But here’s where I’m learning to pivot. I try to zoom out. Instead of obsessing over yesterday’s data or last week’s sluggish stats, I look at the bigger picture. Okay, sure, last week wasn’t stellar—but I’m still running significantly faster than I did last year. And I don’t just mean by seconds. I mean full-on “last year me would’ve called this a miracle” levels of improvement.

Plus, it’s not just about speed. Running clears my head like nothing else. It gives me that sweet sense of accomplishment and resilience. My stamina? Way up. Five years ago, I’d be toast after a mile. Now? I’m a machine. A slightly wheezy, occasionally grumpy machine—but a machine nonetheless.

And let’s not forget the curveballs nature throws. Last summer? Total disaster. Heat waves turned every run into a survival challenge. I wasn’t logging progress—I was logging complaints. But I adapted. I started running earlier in the morning to dodge the furnace-level temps, and boom—problem, sort of solved. Sometimes, disappointment is just disguised data. It tells you what needs fixing. And once you tweak the system, you start winning again.

Now, logically, I know speed isn’t everything. The effort I’m putting in matters more. But let’s be honest—speed feels more real. You can see it. It’s flashy. Tangible. And occasionally heartbreaking.

Still, I don’t want to eliminate the disappointment entirely. Strange as it sounds, it fuels me. That tiny spark of “ugh, I want to do better” is often what lights the fire under my shoes. As long as that frustration doesn’t morph into burnout or self-loathing, I say let it stay. Harness it. Let it challenge you, not crush you.

So here I am—still running, still chasing, still learning not to take a bad day personally. Growth isn’t always linear. But if you look back far enough, you’ll see just how far you’ve come—and realize the finish line isn’t the only victory worth celebrating.

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The Perils of Time Change and Skunks

Written March 10, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Ah yes, it’s that time of year again—the dreaded time change. Most states in the U.S. go through this ritual, allegedly for a good reason, but let’s be honest: it’s mostly just a nuisance. My wife and I were both thoroughly unimpressed to find ourselves waking up to pre-dawn darkness this morning. Nothing says good morning like fumbling around in the dark, wondering why the universe has conspired against you.

As if losing an hour of morning light wasn’t bad enough, my wife had a less-than-pleasant encounter during her morning workout. She spotted a skunk. Yes, a skunk—nature’s own chemical warfare specialist, a creature that thrives under the cover of darkness. Speaking of skunks, we’ve had our own personal skunk horror story. One particularly cold winter evening, a skittish skunk got startled by the sudden roar of our heating system kicking on. In a panic, it unleashed its full arsenal. The wretched stench seeped into the house as warm air circulated, and out of all the rooms, my study bore the brunt of the assault. To this day, I suspect the culprit is the same smug little skunk my wife just spotted.

Now, she lives in fear of another skunk ambush during her workouts. And who could blame her? The absolute last thing anyone wants is to be doused in skunk spray before breakfast. That kind of disaster lingers. Literally.

My wife firmly believes that seasonal wildlife sightings are nature’s own calendar. According to her, as long as she’s still spotting owls and skunks, winter isn’t quite over yet. I can’t argue with that logic—especially since she’s the one out there facing these creatures while I’m still contemplating whether to get out of bed.

But back to the time change. I can’t shake the feeling that this abrupt shift disrupts the natural rhythm of things. Just last week, I was waking up to bright, golden dawns, but now? Darkness, again. It’s a setback. For my wife, the frustration lies in losing that perfect moment at the end of her workout—the serene sight of the sun rising. For me, it’s a simple yet profound demotivator. Whether it’s pitch dark or broad daylight when I wake up, my enthusiasm for running remains highly weather-dependent.

I had grand plans to start running first thing in the morning starting today, but alas, the temperature still has other ideas. It’s just a bit too chilly at dawn to leap enthusiastically into a jog, so that schedule change is officially postponed until further notice. Let’s call it weather permitting.

Besides, I have a bigger goal in mind—I want to avoid running in the unbearable heat of summer. To do that, I’ll need to ease into an earlier schedule as the temperatures allow. Of course, March in Nashville is a wildcard, with temperatures swinging wildly between springtime bliss and winter’s last hurrah. So, my approach is simple: stay flexible, monitor the forecasts, and start my sunrise runs when the weather demands it.

Until then, I’ll just have to deal with the darkness, the cold, and the looming possibility of rogue skunks. Welcome to spring.

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My Water Bottle is Now My Boss

Written March 8, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday, I embarked on a noble quest—one that involves discipline, perseverance, and a very bossy water bottle. My wife, in her infinite wisdom (and slight exasperation with my forgetfulness), got us matching bottles with a hydration schedule printed on the side. Every hour, there’s a new line taunting me, reminding me to drink up before I inevitably fail my kidneys again. The concept is brilliant: sip gradually instead of realizing at 3 p.m. that I haven’t had a drop of water all day and then chugging a ridiculous amount like I’m a lost traveler in the desert.

As someone with chronic kidney disease, hydration isn’t just a good idea—it’s non-negotiable. But here’s the problem: I forget. A lot. When I do remember, I go into panic mode and overcompensate, leading to an uncomfortable, sloshy-stomach situation that’s about as pleasant as wearing wet socks. This bottle might just save me from myself.

Of course, the real test will be summer. When the sun’s out, I’m outside more, blissfully unaware that my body is slowly turning into a raisin. Dehydration and I have a long history, and my lab results have suffered for it. My doctor gently (read: sternly) reminds me that my kidneys don’t appreciate my forgetfulness. So, this summer, I plan to stick to the hydration schedule like my health depends on it—because, well, it does.

This whole thing got me thinking: where was this hydration discipline when I was younger? I never had the instinct to reach for water like my wife does. Not that I was drowning in soda or anything, but I definitely consumed more sugary drinks than necessary. Meanwhile, my wife has always been ahead of the health game. She avoids sugar like it’s plotting against her (which, in fairness, it kind of is—diabetes runs in her family). No soda, no alcohol, and a highly disciplined approach to carbs. She loves pasta and rice, but you’d never know it from how sparingly she eats them. Instead, she fills her plate with sweet potatoes, carrots, and the occasional apple in her salad. Apparently, those count as her sweet treats.

For me, adopting a healthier lifestyle isn’t so much a choice as it is a medical necessity. But I have to admit, having a wife who’s already on board with the whole “let’s not wreck our bodies” philosophy makes things a lot easier. She’s seen firsthand what happens when health is neglected, so she naturally supports my restrictions without making it a big deal. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: marrying her was my best decision.

This hydration experiment means I’ll be consuming a solid two liters of water daily. Right now, I’m still adjusting to this new reality where my bottle dictates my drinking habits. But with summer just around the corner, I have a feeling this little routine will become second nature. My kidneys, my doctor, and my wife will all be pleased. And hey, maybe I’ll finally stop feeling like a dried-up sponge by midday. One can dream.

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From Level 5 to Thriving: My Kidney Recovery Journey

Written March 6, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Ah, the quarterly nephrologist appointment—an event marked on my calendar like a mini health report card. Today was the day.

Once upon a time (and not in a fairytale way), my kidneys decided to stage a dramatic exit, dropping to level 5. For those unfamiliar with the kidney hierarchy, level 5 means you’re not just playing the waiting game—you’re officially in line for a transplant. That’s when my recovery story began.

While waiting for a kidney that might never come, the doctors handed me a to-do list. First up: peritoneal dialysis. That meant getting a catheter—a thin, flexible tube—implanted in my abdomen. My wife, ever the rockstar, took on the role of my personal dialysis technician, administering treatments four times a day. Since dialysis waits for no one, she had to put her job on hold. Meanwhile, I was also dealing with double vision thanks to a stroke, just to keep life extra interesting.

Next on the list? A complete dietary overhaul. Protein—limited. Dairy—cautioned. Even seemingly harmless greens—monitored. And salt? Not a big loss, since we’ve never been big fans anyway. But the adjustments weren’t easy. Every meal felt like a science experiment in portion control and kidney-friendly nutrition.

Then, one day, my doctor hit me with a plot twist: “Well, your kidneys are somehow recovering.” Just like that, dialysis was out, the catheter came off, and my wife could return to work. We stuck to the diet, kept up with regular check-ups, and—miraculously—my kidneys climbed back up to level 3. No more waiting lists. Just a whole lot of monitoring.

That’s why I wear a special watch that tracks everything from my blood pressure to my heart rate. I also keep an eye on my weight because, with my kidneys, even small fluctuations can mean trouble. And speaking of health habits—my wife had the brilliant idea of introducing exercise. At first, even walking with a walker felt like an uphill battle. But we stuck with it. Over the years, the walker turned into casual strolls, which turned into steady jogging. Now, I run. A lot. And somewhere along the way, I traded in excess fat for a leaner, healthier body.

Of course, I still have to be extra cautious. A simple flu or cold can throw my whole system into chaos. But for the most part, I’m in control.

As for today’s appointment? Smooth sailing. My nephrologist gave me the green light—no major concerns, no urgent changes. I did bring up a small worry about my blood pressure occasionally dipping too low, but since my averages are stable, it’s a ‘wait and see’ situation.

The only hiccup? The waiting room. Nearly an hour before I got called in. But hey, patience is a virtue, right? Plus, I got my quarterly visit checked off without any surprises.

Next appointment? Another Wednesday—aka my running day. No problem, I’ll adjust my schedule accordingly.

For now, I’ll keep doing what I’ve been doing. Because somehow, against the odds, it’s working.

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Rain, Appointments, and the Tragedy of a Missed Run

Written March 5, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today, disappointment takes center stage. Nothing earth-shattering—no grand betrayals, no existential crises—just a simple, frustrating reality: I have a doctor’s appointment, and it’s trampling all over my running plans. Normally, I outmaneuver these scheduling dilemmas by booking appointments on non-running days, but this time, fate (or, more accurately, my doctor’s availability) had other plans. And so, my run is officially benched.

At first, I entertained the idea of running after the appointment, a valiant attempt at compromise. But then, I checked the weather: gray skies, a steady drizzle, the kind of rain that makes the world look like it’s mourning some cosmic injustice. It’s not a storm—there are no dramatic lightning bolts to justify staying indoors—but it’s just annoying enough to sap the joy out of a run. I could still go, but do I want to? Not really.

The irony of all this is that I never used to care about running. Actually, I despised it. My wife, on the other hand, has always been an outdoors enthusiast, the type who sees a forest trail and thinks, adventure! while I see it and think, mosquitoes. Left to my own devices, I would have happily remained a devoted indoor creature, perfectly content within four walls. But the more time I spent with her, the more I found myself dragged—reluctantly, at first—into nature. Running, however, was an entirely different beast.

I started running for her. After my stroke, she worried about my mobility, my brain function, and my ability to move with ease. She saw running as a way to keep me sharp and strong. And because I saw her as someone worth listening to, I ran. Not because I wanted to, not because I had any burning passion for the sport, but because making her happy was reason enough.

Of course, she saw through that instantly. “What happens if I’m not here?” she once asked, with a look that could cut through steel. “Would you just stop?” She argued that motivation needs to be internal and that relying on external forces makes for a fragile commitment. I nodded along, pretending to agree, but deep down, I wasn’t sure she was wrong.

Then, somewhere along the way, something shifted. It crept up on me, subtle and unexpected. Running became less about obligation and more about, well… me. I started to enjoy it—maybe even need it. And now, here I am, feeling genuinely frustrated about missing a run—not for my wife’s sake, but for my own. Somehow, that motivation she kept talking about had rooted itself deeper than I realized.

Now, I sit here, staring at the window, checking my weather app like it might miraculously change in my favor. It doesn’t. The sky remains gray, the drizzle continues, and my disappointment lingers. But really, what’s the point in sulking? I could try to make up the run tomorrow—though that might throw off my Friday schedule. I’ll decide when the time comes. One thing’s for sure: next time, I’ll fight harder for a non-running day appointment. But if I have to choose between my health and my run, the run will lose. Reluctantly.