Month: June 2025

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Water Flosser Drama and the Case of the Wandering Gum

Written May 28, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Good news first: by the end of yesterday, my knee had stopped throwing tantrums. Maybe it was all the extra TLC—multiple stretching sessions, the elevated position like it was royalty, and me being unusually gentle with my daily tasks. Whatever the reason, this morning it felt… well, not like a brand-new knee, but like a knee that wasn’t mad at me anymore.

Naturally, I decided to run. Not a record-breaking dash, mind you—more like a polite jog. I didn’t hit my target pace, but hey, considering recent negotiations with my joints, I’ll take a “still functioning” over “speed demon” any day.

The day’s next event? A dental pilgrimage to Brentwood with my wife.

Now, my wife is brave in many ways, but when it comes to needles, doctors, or dentists? Imagine a kitten hiding under a blanket. She always says that having me there calms her nerves, makes things smoother. (Which, honestly, might just be her code for “Please chauffeur me and distract me with your soothing sarcasm.”)

The drive was short—just over ten minutes. Our dentist had sent her to a specialist because something felt off with one of her teeth, but nothing obvious showed up on the scan. Cue suspense music.

She was especially nervous because several years ago, she cracked a tooth from grinding in her sleep. Since then, she’s worn a mouthguard nightly like it’s part of her teeth care ritual. Dental anxiety is real—but so is her commitment to oral health. No matter the cost, she keeps those pearly whites in check.

The twist? Turns out she’d been water-flossing like an overzealous fire hose technician. Too often, too strong, and at an angle so aggressive it practically evicted her gum from her tooth. The irony? All that jet-powered effort meant no infection or gum disease. Just an overworked gum waving a white flag.

Naturally, I was paying attention. I also use a water flosser—set to “Hurricane Mode,” apparently—and now I’m wondering if I’ve been power-washing my mouth like it’s a driveway. Lesson learned.

With chronic kidney disease, I’m more prone to infections—including dental ones. A doctor told me that a decade ago, when I was 35 and still blissfully ignorant of the tooth-gum power struggle. These days, I’m borderline obsessive about oral hygiene. My gums are in good shape, thank you very much, and now they’ll stay that way—minus the water-flossing warfare.

Oh, and before we embarked on our dental saga, I took a moment to examine the lawn. Yesterday’s mowing was more “half-hearted swoop” than “precision landscaping,” but today’s glance told me I’m not too far behind. With any luck (and cooperative weather), I should have it looking civilized again by tomorrow—with minimal whining from either my knee or me.

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Low Energy, High Commitment: A Lazy Day Done Right

Written May 27, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Some days you wake up ready to conquer mountains. Other days, you’re lucky if you can conquer getting out of bed. Today, I woke up with the energy level of a potato. Not even a baked one—just raw and slightly sprouting. But alas, adulthood doesn’t come with a snooze button for responsibility.

It’s summer, which means the yard doesn’t politely tend itself. As a certified grown-up with chronic kidney disease (yay me), outdoor chores hit a little differently. For one, I fatigue faster than a phone battery at 2% running Google Maps. And two, thanks to dietary restrictions, I can’t exactly refuel with a protein-packed feast. Recovery is more “zen monk” than “Olympic athlete.”

Truth be told, I’ve probably been pushing too hard lately, and my body threw up the white flag this morning. Still, I’ve learned a sneaky little trick over the years: sometimes, when I feel like doing absolutely nothing, doing something physical actually kickstarts my energy. It’s like reverse psychology for the body—move first, motivation later.

My wife is a big fan of this method. She’s got low blood pressure and isn’t exactly a morning person (understatement). But she swears by the “just get up and do it” approach. Apparently, once she starts moving, she gains energy like Mario collecting power-ups. So, inspired by her, I shuffled outside to tackle the lawn.

Now, I wasn’t about to go full landscaper mode—my right knee is staging a protest, and there were off-and-on rain showers making things feel extra dramatic. But I mowed enough grass to earn my Adulting Badge for the day. Oddly, the grass hadn’t grown much despite warm weather and plenty of rain. Maybe the lawn is in solidarity with me. Lazy blades unite.

Planking was next on the list, and let me tell you, convincing myself to do it was like trying to sell a gym membership to a cat. But eventually, I managed. Was it graceful? No. Was it done? Absolutely.

Even after all that effort, my energy never quite caught up. Meanwhile, my wife zipped around the house like a caffeinated squirrel. She only slows down once—right after waking up. Then she goes full throttle until bedtime, like some kind of adorable Energizer Bunny. I, on the other hand, operate in slow-mo with commercial breaks.

Still, despite the sluggishness and aching knee, I didn’t skip any of my responsibilities. I scaled a few tasks down (because I’m not a masochist), but everything got done. Not bad for a guy running on fumes.

Hopefully, tomorrow will bring more energy and a less rebellious knee. As for running? We’ll let morning-me figure that out. He’s usually more optimistic.

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Dust Busters: Cleaning can Change with Better Equipment

Written May 26, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today, a glorious new gadget graced our doorstep—a cleaning contraption so versatile it might just be the Swiss Army knife of dust warfare. And believe me, in a house with six ceiling fans spinning like caffeinated ballerinas in the Nashville heat, we need all the reinforcements we can get.

Now, these aren’t your run-of-the-mill ceiling fans. Oh no. Our ceilings clock in at a lofty 12 feet, with some areas tipping into the 14-foot territory—because apparently, our house moonlights as a cathedral. Cleaning those fans used to involve acrobatics on a ladder, which was less “Cirque du Soleil” and more “Risk of a Sprained Ankle.” So we’ve been on the hunt for a tool that doesn’t require a safety briefing.

Enter: The Ultimate Multi-Tool of Cleanliness.

Not only does it reach sky-high blades with ease, it also swoops down to scrub baseboards and perch atop door frames like a ninja. My wife, the ever-curious home innovation enthusiast (and certified dust-allergy warrior), was practically giddy unboxing it. I haven’t seen her that excited since we discovered pumpkin spice lattes were back in season.

She took it for a spin first, testing out all the attachments like a scientist in a very glamorous lab coat. Her eyes lit up. I half expected her to declare, “Eureka!” and apply for a patent.

Of course, I wasn’t about to let her have all the fun. While she organized her room (which, by the way, resembles a minimalist museum exhibit—less is Zen), I tackled the fans. After the first one, I figured out the controls. By the third, I was basically a ceiling fan-whisperer. It was so much easier than teetering on a ladder while juggling a rag and a prayer.

Oh, and yes—we now own the aforementioned ladder, which was originally acquired for the bathroom painting escapade. That project’s a whole other saga involving color swatches, paint fumes, and the eternal debate between French Silver and Espresso Bean.

Anyway, back to our magical multi-tool: the top part detaches and can be tossed into the washing machine—because why not make cleaning the cleaner easy too? It also moonlights as a window washer. Honestly, this thing could probably bake cookies and negotiate trade deals if we asked nicely.

In the spirit of efficiency, my wife is now adopting a “cycle-cleaning” strategy. Instead of waiting for annual cleaning binges (which often coincide with her rare, sacred vacation time), she’s spreading it out throughout the year. As she explained, “It’s like inventory management—nobody wants to count everything at once if they can just stay on top of it.” Spoken like someone who’s survived a 3-day corporate inventory physical count with 30 coworkers and one shared printer.

She insists a tidy home clears the mental cobwebs too. When she lived in Canada, her house was delightfully sparse. Not in a cold, lonely way—more like a spa for the soul. Think Marie Kondo meets Zen monastery, minus the incense. 

So yes, the fan blades now gleam like freshly-polished samurai swords, and we’re both feeling smugly domestic. Will this tool become a staple of our annual deep-clean? Definitely. Unless, of course, Nashville’s pollen count decides to test us early—and then it might become our new favorite hobby.

Or at least mine. My wife already looks like she’s plotting her next cleaning conquest.

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Sunday Rituals: Lavender Lattes, Strategy Sessions, and the Great Pizza Finale

Written May 25, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today has been one of those rare, mythical beasts: a truly relaxing Sunday. I woke up right on schedule (because even rest deserves punctuality), practiced piano until my wife wrapped up her culinary quest, and then glided downstairs for a leisurely breakfast. After that, I lounged around like a cat in a sunbeam, biding my time until the most sacred of rituals—Sunday lattes.

This week’s latte came with a twist: lavender syrup. A bold move, I know. It was a Christmas gift from my sister, paired with a milk frother that has since elevated our caffeine habits from “functional” to “fabulously frothy.” Thus was born the weekly tradition we now call Fancy Coffee Sunday—our little rebellion against mediocrity in a mug.

My wife’s undisputed favorite is pumpkin spice, thanks to a particularly memorable Thanksgiving Day Starbucks special. Me? I appreciate the artistry of a high-end café, but there’s something satisfying—almost rebellious—about crafting your own latte at home with whatever flavor your heart (or sister) desires. Some weeks, we skip the syrup entirely. The coffee still sings.

As for lavender? Let’s just say it tasted… like spring in a cup that forgot it wasn’t a bouquet. Not really my vibe, but hey, it was still good. My wife, of course, liked it—though she might enjoy sipping a cactus if it came with a reading nook and a strong narrative arc.

Speaking of which, my wife reads. Constantly. I’m not even sure she knows how to read for “fun” anymore. Even when it’s fiction, it turns into a full-blown academic symposium, complete with notes, themes, and references. YouTube, movies—it’s all fodder for analysis. After years together, I’ve accepted it: she simply cannot relax like a normal human. Even her downtime has footnotes.

Yet even she bows to the sacred calm of Sunday rituals. There’s the weekly Hansei reflection (think of it as a personal board meeting with herself), strategy sessions, goal recalibrations, and some drawing for good measure. Then—and only then—does she read more books. Because clearly, she hadn’t gotten enough in during the previous six days.

Usually, we take a gentle afternoon walk to clear the cobwebs and digest the caffeine. But today? The weather clearly had other plans. Rain came down like it had a vendetta. Our would-be stroll was rained out, drowned beneath the symphony of thunder and sideways wind. So much for getting those steps in.

But not all was lost. Because Sunday, my friends, is also Pizza Day.

And not just any pizza. We make it from scratch, crust and all, with our trusty sourdough starter—our bubbling pet project. There’s something magical about kneading dough together, like couples therapy but with more carbs.

So yes, while others may flock to fancy brunch spots or glamorous outings, we’ve found our own little sanctuary in the art of doing nothing (strategically). Sunday rituals keep us sane, caffeinated, and deliciously grounded.

And if that’s not self-care, I don’t know what is.

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Weekend Warriors and Chocolate-Colored Cabinets

Written May 24, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Our bathroom is currently undergoing a transformation, one brushstroke at a time. The original plan—crafted by my industrious wife—was to wrap up the project in two months. We’re now somewhere in the middle of the timeline and knee-deep in paint swatches, grout dust, and the sweet scent of determination.

Now, you should know—my wife doesn’t just work a full-time job. She also moonlights as a businesswoman, weekend renovation specialist, and occasional home depot ninja. She insists on finishing what she starts, even if it means trading her rest days for roller brushes and drop cloths.

First up, we tackled the walls with fresh paint. Then came the next challenge: painting the furniture. There was a brief flirtation with the idea of using a compressor and air sprayer, but after weighing convenience against the learning curve, she heroically opted for the good old-fashioned brush.

Tile regrouting is up next on the renovation menu—but only after the furniture gets its fashionable new coat.

And what, you may ask, is the theme of this ambitious bathroom makeover? None other than Alice in Wonderland, with a color palette that leans more Victorian mystery than candy-colored chaos. Today’s mission was to choose between French Silver and Chocolate Express for the furniture. After much debate and a few imaginary sips of tea with the Mad Hatter, Chocolate Express won. Because nothing says “whimsical literary elegance” like furniture dipped in the shade of gourmet cocoa.

Both my wife and I share a love for books, which is why our whole house is slowly turning into a literary wonderland. The dining room is destined to channel The Great Gatsby, complete with Jazz Age glamour. The entertainment room downstairs? That’s reserved for Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea—I’m imagining fishing nets and melancholic vibes. My personal room? It’s inspired by the Cosmere universe from Brandon Sanderson. (Yes, I like my décor like I like my fiction—epic and multi-dimensional.)

This morning, like responsible homeowners fueled by coffee and creative purpose, we hit up Home Depot. We returned with furniture paint, garden soil, and enough mulch to make our front yard look like it just got a spa day. After we got home, I geared up for a 10 km run—because fitness waits for no renovation.

While I was out pounding the pavement, my wife was already knee-deep in the flowerbeds, spreading topsoil and mulch with the quiet intensity of someone who had clearly been plotting this moment for weeks. Every time she returned from her morning workouts, she’d linger by the yard, eyeing it like a painter sizes up a blank canvas. Now I get it—she was landscaping with stealth.

Once the front yard was tamed, she pivoted back to the project at hand. I, in true sidekick fashion, was assigned the important job of removing tiny metal hinges and handles from cabinet doors—because if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s disassembling furniture like it’s a high-stakes game of IKEA Tetris.

Meanwhile, she began painting. There’s something soothing about watching her work—her brush strokes almost rhythmic. She’s always had an interest in programming (self-taught, naturally), and I often think her brain runs on perfectly stacked command lines. Her day is structured like a flowchart—probably a side effect of her day job in process improvement.

But she’s not all spreadsheets and strategy. She paints, plays piano, devours books, and occasionally disappears into deep thought. There’s a quiet balance in how she mixes creativity with efficiency. Somehow, between all this doing, she manages to be. Reflective. Purposeful. Gracefully intense.

As for me? I help where I can—mostly with grunt work and moral support. Today, that meant handing her tools and cheering when the first coat of Chocolate Express went on smoothly. Now, our bathroom cabinet doors are drying in peaceful anticipation of their grand debut.

Soon, the bathroom will be complete—a portal to Wonderland, with neatly regrouted tiles and literary flair. And until then? Well, I’ll keep running errands, running 10Ks, and running to keep up with my remarkable wife.

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Chilly Mornings, Running Shoes, and a Piano Sonata

Written May 23, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

The temperature in Nashville has taken a nosedive—and no, it didn’t pack a parachute. After last year’s fiery summer that had us questioning our life choices (and our air conditioning bills), this sudden chill feels like Mother Nature hit the rewind button. Yes, it’s still May, but she seems to be flirting with November.

This morning was especially nippy. When I peeked out the window and saw my breath waving back at me, I knew it was time to suit up: long running pants, my trusty jacket, and—wait for it—gloves. In May. Gloves. It’s like my wardrobe thinks I’m training for a winter marathon in the Alps.

Now, you might think it’s odd to go full snowman mode when summer’s supposed to be knocking. But here’s the thing: my internal thermostat took early retirement after my brain stroke. Temperature control? Not my strong suit. Sudden swings in weather throw my body into a melodramatic performance that would win awards in the “What Is Happening?” category.

Air conditioning? Pure nemesis. Walking into an airport or my sister’s house in summer is like being tossed into a meat locker. I’ve learned to show up in long sleeves—even when it’s 90 degrees outside—because otherwise I’ll be shivering like a chihuahua in a thunderstorm. The cold can be layered against. The heat? That’s a whole different beast. I guzzle water like a desert camel on payday, hoping to keep my body cool and my kidneys happy. Two birds, one hydration strategy.

Once I get going, though—especially on my morning runs—my body usually catches on. “Ah, right, we’re moving now,” it says, and cranks up the internal furnace. I ran early today, when most sane people were still snuggled under blankets. Despite my janky autonomic nervous system, running helps me feel a bit more human. Hot and cold sensations still get confused in my body, like a thermostat designed by committee, but I’ve learned to manage.

At home, we keep things pretty natural—by which I mean we try not to live in a wind tunnel or a sauna. We only use the heater or AC when the weather gets truly unruly. My wife likes to keep our indoor climate close to what’s going on outside, which I suspect is part philosophy and part compassion. She knows if we blast the AC, I’ll feel like I’ve been slapped by a snowball every time I step outside and come back to the house.

Our house helps with this too. It’s cleverly built into a hill—like a Hobbit home, but with better Wi-Fi. From the front, it looks like a charming one-story cottage, but the backside reveals a full two-story surprise. One side of the lower floor is completely underground, which keeps the house naturally cool in the summer and cozy in winter. The front storage room has no windows, making it a perfect hideaway if a hurricane decides to visit. On the flip side—literally—the back has big windows and faces a forest with a stream trickling behind it. You can’t see the stream from the house, but just knowing it’s there is oddly comforting, like a secret whisper from nature.

After my run and a gloriously hot shower (ah yes, the sweet revenge on the morning chill), I sit down to play the piano. This is my favorite time of day—body warm, mind clear, fingers alive. There’s something beautifully simple about it.

As for tomorrow, the plan is to tackle a 10k after our trip to the hardware store. Normally, I’d run first, but with another crisp morning ahead, I figure I’ll wait until later. Timing is everything—even in running shoes.

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The Case of the Missing Kilometers: A Summer Running Mystery

Written May 17, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today began with ambition: a 10K run was on the agenda. Shoes laced, legs stretched, I was off. I breezed through the first 5K like a gazelle who’d had a double espresso… then promptly jogged home—not for coffee, but for a much less glamorous reason: nature called, and she wasn’t leaving a voicemail.

Mid-bathroom break, a revelation struck me (because naturally, my most productive thinking happens next to a toilet): I had only done half the distance I intended. Oops. Apparently, my brain thought it was a 5K day. Distracted? Possibly. Possessed by lazy Saturday energy? Likely.

But hey, silver lining: I usually run the same 5K loop twice for a full 10K. So, I just slapped on my shoes again and headed out for round two. Voilà! A split-level 10K.

I use the Adidas Running app to track my kilometers, pace, and whatever else it measures while silently judging my life choices. It’s a free app—yes, free—and surprisingly robust. A nephrologist (yes, kidney doctor turned running app guru) recommended it. Now both my wife and I are part of the Adidas app cult. There’s a premium version, but the free one already does everything short of making you breakfast.

Of course, the app doesn’t understand “bathroom detour logic.” It logged my run as two separate 5Ks. According to my phone, I didn’t complete a 10K—I just got wildly enthusiastic about doing the exact same 5K twice. Technically true. But also deeply unhelpful.

To be honest, I’ve felt mildly off-schedule lately. My weekends have been a flurry of activity—Indiana trips, birthday parties, unexpected chaos. My new summer routine has been more “choose your own adventure” than “disciplined athlete.” Today was, in fact, my first proper Saturday 10K since adopting the summer schedule. That explains the weird déjà vu and temporal confusion.

Why the switch-up? Simple: summers in Nashville are hot and humid. Not just “sweat-a-bit” humid—more like “is-the-air-soup?” humid. My wife, the smart one, runs at 5:30 a.m. to dodge the worst of it. Even then, she sometimes returns looking like she swam the route. If you’re thinking of running later in the day, don’t. Just don’t.

I’ve shifted to morning runs too—not just to beat the heat, but because it makes the whole day run smoother. Early run means early shower, early breakfast, and fewer “hangry while vacuuming” episodes. Trust me, those are not pretty.

Still, I’m baffled that I forgot I was doing a 10K today. Maybe it’s summer brain. Maybe I was subconsciously hoping to avoid it. Maybe my legs staged a tiny rebellion. Who knows? What I do know is that I’ve missed three Saturday 10Ks in a row thanks to life’s little curveballs, and today finally felt like a return to the groove—even if it came with a bathroom intermission.

Next week, I’ll be more focused. Or at least I’ll try not to confuse a 10K with a 5K. But if I forget again, maybe I’ll just start calling it “interval training with plumbing awareness.” Sounds fancy, doesn’t it?

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How I Outsmarted Protein Restrictions and Found My Balance (Mostly)

Written May 13, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

After mowing the lawn this morning—a chore I now count as both cardio and meditation—I had a small but glorious victory: the bathroom scale whispered the sweet news that I’ve almost reclaimed all my lost weight. Just one stubborn pound remains. One! At this rate, I may throw that pound a welcome-back party… with non-alcoholic, low-phosphorus sparkling water, of course.

For months, I’ve been running four times a week. It all began innocently enough: my wife, in her infinite wisdom (and persistence), suggested I start walking to help my brain recover post-stroke. One foot in front of the other eventually snowballed into full-blown 10K runs. I guess my brain took that as “heal or hustle.”

But here’s the kicker: the stroke didn’t just damage my brain—it also decided to throw my kidneys under the bus. That lovely discovery landed me on dialysis and slapped me with a grocery list of dietary restrictions that reads like a “no-fun” menu. Protein? Strictly rationed at 36 grams per day. That’s less than what your average housecat gets. Chicken breasts? Off the table. Protein shakes? Forbidden potions. Cheese, chocolate, bananas? Banned by the Potassium & Phosphorus Police.

And yet, summer rolls in, bringing not just sunshine but a to-do list longer than a CVS receipt. Yard work, outdoor chores, sweating like I’m trying to grow muscles through evaporation—it’s a full-body experience. But here’s the problem: I can’t refuel the usual way. No chomping down extra calories from your friendly neighborhood protein bar.

So I get creative. Snacks become strategic. I’ve mastered the fine art of the homemade jam pastry—yes, it’s as indulgent and carefully calculated as it sounds. Ice cream also makes an occasional cameo, carefully vetted like it’s applying for a visa to enter my digestive system.

Recently, I’ve had to scale back (pun intended) my other workouts due to a rebellious shoulder. Planking? Down to once a day. The result? Surprise! Less exercise = weight gain. Turns out, my body is a finicky machine that runs on paradoxes and spite.

The shoulder is still not back to full power, but it’s slowly on the mend. So, for now, I’m sticking with the gentle path—less exercise, more patience, fewer unreasonable expectations.

One issue at a time. No need to be greedy with progress. My body isn’t a vending machine—I don’t get to press A5 and receive instant healing. But if I treat it kindly, listen to its cues, and bribe it with jam, we might just keep moving forward.

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Small Steps, Giant Wins (and a Few Flea Battles)

Written May 11, 2025

reviewed 5/24

Hello Dear Readers,

Good news: my shoulder is feeling better today! Not back to its full glory, but at least it’s no longer threatening to sabotage my every deep breath. Rest seems to be doing its job, so I’ll stick with it—doctor’s orders by way of common sense (the best kind).

Yesterday was a lovely disruption. My wife and I visited my family, and though it threw our usual routine out the window (probably landed somewhere in my sister’s garden), it was worth every minute. On our way home, we stopped by a grocery store near her place—a new battlefield for the weekly shop. The store layout was familiar enough to avoid total confusion, but alas, I forgot to grab cereal and almond milk. A breakfast betrayal. I’ll probably survive until next weekend, but this small oversight inspired a groundbreaking revelation: maybe I should start making a shopping list.

Yes, a list. Revolutionary.

My wife has always been a proud advocate of baby steps. “Kaizen,” she reminds me. Continuous improvement. (And yes, she built this website.)

For me, baby steps weren’t a motivational slogan—they were survival. After my brain stroke and subsequent surgery, many basic bodily functions simply clocked out. Skin sensation? Gone. Moving my legs? Like trying to command two uncooperative noodles. For months, it felt like I was locked inside myself. But slowly—achingly, infuriatingly slowly—I started to recover.

“Never give up,” my wife repeated like a mantra. Some days I believed her. Some days I just nodded while silently screaming. But now? Now I run 10 kilometers. Let that sink in. From immobile to 10k—powered entirely by small steps and pure stubbornness.

Eventually, my wife handed me the reins to this site. She told me people like me—stroke survivors, fighters, turtle-paced improvers—should share their stories. And she’s right. If someone like me can claw their way back into mobility and routine, maybe someone else out there won’t give up either.

Lately, my “kaizen” has taken the form of tweaking our weekly routine. I’m oddly proud of these tiny changes. They’re my breadcrumb trail to a more efficient life—though I don’t believe in a perfect routine. That’s a unicorn I’ve stopped chasing. But improvements? I’ll take all I can get.

Take laundry, for instance. Last week, I added a second wash day to deal with the stealthy flea army I unwittingly invite in every time I mow the lawn. We used to only wash clothes after Thursday mowing. But that left a two-day window for Tuesday’s flea squad to stage an escape from the laundry basket. Now I wash on Tuesdays, too—cutting their freedom window down to an hour or two. I call that a flea lockdown. (Sorry, guys. No soft landing this year.)

Back when we had a cat, she did most of the flea-fighting for us—like a soft, purring sacrifice with flea poison. But now it’s just us, the washing machine, and a growing pile of yard clothes.

So yes, these are small things: a shoulder healing, a forgotten carton of almond milk, a laundry schedule shift. But they add up. And step by step, list by list, run by run—I’m moving forward.

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Good Morning, Cardboard Chaos and Core Pain

Written May 10, 2025

reviewed 5/24

Hello Dear Readers,

Today I woke up with my body sending out what can only be described as an RSVP to the Pain Party. Most notably, my left shoulder/back area felt like it had gone a few rounds with a grizzly bear in its off-season. Every deep breath came with a charming reminder that, yes, I am no longer 22, and yes, running with sore muscles is about as fun as assembling IKEA furniture without instructions.

My grand plan was to knock out a casual 10k before heading to my sister’s shindig this afternoon. Reality, however, had other ideas. After dragging my slightly disgruntled limbs through a 5k, I waved the white flag. Enough was enough—this wasn’t the Olympics, and I wasn’t trying to impress Zeus.

When I whined—uh, consulted—with my wife about the mystery ache, she casually mentioned it might be from my recent plank marathons. Apparently, the floor space I’ve been using is less “yoga studio” and more “cardboard jungle.” Ever since we got back from Indiana, I’ve been buried in a sorting spree of my ancient Magic: The Gathering cards. Yes, the relics of my nerdy youth have staged a comeback, occupying approximately 47.3% of my study floor. (I measured emotionally.)

Now, my wife is not a fan of clutter. She approaches “stuff” with the same energy Marie Kondo would use to evict a raccoon from a linen closet. So, naturally, I’ve been trying to downsize the collection. Thankfully, a colleague of hers wants some of these dusty treasures. Apparently, old cardboard can still spark joy—or at least a trade.

The real issue? Sorting thousands of cards takes room. A lot of room. So I’ve been planking between booster packs and binder piles like some sort of core-strengthening archaeologist. My wife suggested—read: strongly recommended—that I plank in her room instead, where there’s actually space to extend my limbs without risking a landslide of mana.

Why didn’t I take her advice earlier? Well, I’m stubborn. Also, it felt like cheating on my routine. But considering my left side now feels like it’s been betrayed by my own ribcage, I’ve rethought my loyalties. She’s probably right. (She usually is. Don’t tell her I said that.)

I cleared a bit more space today, and voila—planking is no longer a game of human Tetris. The pain has subsided after some careful stretching and a moment of self-pity. Once I finish sorting the last of the cards—hopefully by mid-May—I’ll officially reclaim my floor and return to planking with dignity (and less groaning).

Lesson learned: Sometimes it’s better to abandon your makeshift gym and just listen to your wise, clutter-hating spouse. Especially if you enjoy breathing pain-free.

Until next time, stretch wisely and store your cardboard carefully.

—Your slightly sore, slightly wiser blogger