Month: June 2025

Posted on

When Your Muscles Say, “Not Today”

Written May 8, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Sometimes, my body and I are just not on the same team. Today’s first planking session felt like trying to wrestle a walrus—slippery, slow, and strangely humiliating. As I collapsed into a heap after the first set, I stared into the abyss (okay, the ceiling) and wondered how on earth I was supposed to do three more.

For the record, I don’t do anything extreme. I jog four times a week and do 10–20 minutes of muscle training every day—respectable, not Ironman material. Yet even this modest routine requires me to walk the tightrope of “just enough” thanks to my charmingly fussy kidneys.

Protein is a particular diva in my diet. I can eat it, but only in controlled, red-carpet amounts. If I push too hard without fueling properly, my muscles start cannibalizing themselves like a badly written survival movie. Not the vibe I’m going for. So, I’ve learned to listen to my body like it’s the lead singer and I’m just the backing vocals. Some days, it hits the high notes. Today, it croaked.

Naturally, this led to the Great Plank Debate of the Day: do I quit after one and scale the whole plan back? Or do I test the waters again later and see if my body’s just being dramatic?

Several hours and one curiosity-fueled check-in later… surprise! Round two felt significantly better. Maybe the lawn mowing earlier had worn me out more than I thought. Or maybe my muscles just needed a little nap and a motivational TED talk. Either way, I was back in the game.

Session three was… fine-ish. Not glorious, but also not tragic. I rewarded myself with a brief pause and some household chores—because nothing says “active rest” like folding towels. Then came session four, powered by the holy grail of motivation: ice cream. And somehow, I did it.

This whole planking saga got me thinking—maybe I need a proper rest day in my routine. I already rotate muscle groups to avoid overworking the same area, but perhaps even my meticulous planning needs a day off. After all, I’m not a machine. I’m a human with medical fine print.

I haven’t figured out the ideal plank duration yet. I know I can’t keep increasing it forever (unless I’m training for a Guinness World Record in dramatic floor-staring). One day, I’ll hit a ceiling. But for now, I’ve made peace with the idea that recovery is not weakness—it’s strategy.

Living with chronic conditions means your exercise plan sometimes needs to bend like a yoga master. So today’s lesson? When your body says “later,” sometimes it means “better.”

Posted on

When Weather Gaslights You: A Nashville Tale

Written May 4, 2025

reviewed 5/18

Hello Dear Readers,

Last night, Nashville—ever the drama queen—decided to flirt with winter again. One minute we’re sweating through 80°F days, the next, it’s 50°F and somehow feels like we’ve wandered into a scene from Frozen. Yes, 50 degrees doesn’t sound frigid on paper, but after a week of borderline tropical heat, it hits like a betrayal. I call it thermal whiplash.

We recently took a trip up to Indiana to visit my dad, which should’ve been a casual northern jaunt. Turns out, Indiana didn’t get the springtime memo. It’s just six hours north, but the temperature there lagged behind Nashville’s by a good 10 to 15 degrees. We arrived confidently underdressed and promptly humbled by the Midwest’s commitment to staying brisk. Apparently, even the weather in Indiana had trust issues.

My theory? That chilly Indiana air decided it liked us so much, it followed us home like a stray dog. And now here we are—hosting winter’s encore in May.

My wife, who possesses a fully functioning autonomic nervous system (unlike yours truly), took the temperature dip in stride. While I was layering like a human lasagna, she just mumbled something about needing sleeves and kept her 5:30 AM workout routine like clockwork. The woman is basically a solar-powered Terminator—nothing stops her if it’s scheduled.

Meanwhile, I work from home and consider “schedule” more of a suggestion than a rule. My day bends around three pillars: sleep, meals, and whether it’s cold enough to make me regret my life choices. As temperatures go haywire, I adapt like a lizard seeking sun—except slower and with more coffee.

I had just kicked off my summer schedule. You know, the one where I run before the pavement becomes a skillet? That plan lasted, oh, about two days before the weather pulled a reverse card. When your body can’t regulate temperature like it used to, you don’t negotiate—you pivot. And so, back to the winter plan we go: outside chores and running only when the thermometer behaves.

As for tomorrow, it looks like I’ll be suiting up in long sleeves again. Annoying? Yes. Unfair? Absolutely. I mean, I wasn’t consulted when they set the week’s forecast. But here I am, a humble peasant bowing to the weather gods.

Still, I got my bonus chores done today like a champ. And since I recently added piano practice into the mix (because why not make life more melodious?), I’ll be squeezing that in post-shower, post-workout—basically when I’m already exhausted but slightly cleaner.

Moral of the story? Nashville weather is like a cat: beautiful, unpredictable, and completely uninterested in your plans.

Posted on

My Left Hand and the Piano: A Love Story in Progress (with Supervision)

Written 05/03/2025

Hello Dear Readers,

For my birthday, my wife gave me a pair of gifts—small in size, but mighty in purpose. One was a clever little guide that sits atop the piano keys and tells me which note is which (finally, no more pretending middle C is wherever my finger happens to land). The other? A beginner’s piano book for adults—because apparently, it’s never too late to become a clumsy Beethoven.

Naturally, this led me to the next question: Where on earth do I squeeze piano practice into my already jam-packed schedule of surviving, recovering, and occasionally pretending I don’t need a nap?

Let’s rewind a bit. Back in my younger days, I was a lightning-fast typist. A true child of the digital age, I grew up playing text-based games online, typing as if my life depended on it—probably because it did, at least if I wanted to defeat goblins in under 0.3 seconds. But then came the stroke. And just like that, my typing—and pretty much every other form of movement—hit the reset button.

My right side made a comeback worthy of a sports movie montage. My left side? Eh… not so much. It remained clumsy, uncooperative, and frankly, a little rebellious. Since walking was the first priority, I focused on my legs. Years of effort later, I can now run 10K like someone with a vendetta against gravity. But the hand? Still marching to its own awkward beat.

So I turned to my wife—who’s a piano player and my resident hand-coordination consultant—and asked for a piano book. She lit up like a major chord. I had tried piano before, somewhere around 2018 or 2019, but couldn’t keep it up. Mobility had to come first, and my left hand was still on sabbatical.

Now, with the book in hand (well, mostly right hand), I’m ready to try again. It’s a fresh start. A new project. And we all know the first rule of New Projects Club: Don’t kid yourself. Saying “I’ll just practice whenever I have time” is code for “I’ll definitely forget, then panic, then pretend I never planned this at all.” So I’ve decided piano will follow my shower—clean body, clean mind, slightly damp enthusiasm.

My wife advised me not to launch into a full 30-minute Beethoven marathon right away. “Start small,” she said. “Five to ten minutes. Don’t burn out your fingers or your will to live.” Wise words. The goal is consistency, not concertos.

She also gave me The Talk about posture and form. “No slamming the keys,” she warned. “It’s not a typewriter or a drum.” Apparently, hitting a piano key too hard can cause unwanted vibrations in the other keys—kind of like when one person sneezes in a quiet room and everyone else flinches. She had to unlearn her own bad habits, and she’d really prefer I not repeat them.

So here we are: me, a slightly-used left hand, a piano, and a patient wife. I’m excited. Nervous. Slightly tone-deaf. But excited. Let’s see where this new adventure takes me—hopefully somewhere between “Chopsticks” and Chopin.

Posted on

Planking Debt and Dental Drama: A Cautionary (Core) Tale

Written April 30, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday’s schedule came with extra side quests—including an unexpected journey into the land of Root Canal—which left me with a zero on the plank scoreboard. Not a single session. Nada. Zilch.

Now, before the Fitness Police come knocking, let me plead my case. First, I was out of the house for hours because a dentist decided to drill into my soul (well, technically my tooth, but same vibes). Second, I was warned that once the anesthesia wore off, my jaw would throb in sync with my heartbeat like an EDM concert. So anything that might elevate my heart rate—say, planking—was officially off the table. Because nothing says “bad idea” quite like throbbing pain in your skull while pretending to be a human ironing board.

So yes, I had a good excuse. But I also know: excuses don’t cancel consequences. They just soften the guilt.

Today, however, was redemption day. I rolled out my mat and got to work, attempting to chip away at the planking debt like a fiscally responsible core warrior. I’ll try to sneak in more sets before the day ends, because… just because. (Discipline is mysterious like that.)

My wife once told me that missing a day of piano practice set her back a whole week. So, during her serious piano era, she would tap those keys every chance she got—like a caffeinated Mozart. But muscles aren’t like piano scales. You can’t binge your way back to strength. Hit the same muscles too soon, and you’re more likely to get a complaint letter from your own body.

Still, skipping a workout unsettles me—way more than it logically should. After my stroke, when I couldn’t move at all, I made a quiet promise to myself: if I ever got mobility back, I’d use it. Every skipped session feels like I’m letting that promise fade a little.

I’ve made peace with the past. I carry it with me—not as baggage, but as a reminder. My wife has this old car that’s nearly 20 years old. She maintains it like it’s a classic Ferrari. Not because it’s fancy, but because it’s hers. She’s grateful it still runs. I guess I treat my body the same way. It may not be shiny, but it still moves, still works, still gets me through the day—and for that, I’m deeply grateful.

I’ve never been a super athlete. I don’t sprint past people or crush personal bests on leaderboards. But I show up. I work. I move.

As of now, I’ve done two planks. The goal is to hit five today—six if I’m feeling spicy. That way, I’ll be one session closer to balancing my plank budget. And tomorrow? I’ll settle the score.

Because the only thing worse than sore abs… is regret.

Posted on

Root Canals, Cupcakes, and Calendar Fails: A Tuesday Tale

Written April 29, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today’s thrill? A date with dental destiny—aka, a root canal. Yes, nothing says “living on the edge” quite like your body deciding, without warning or permission, to eat your own tooth.

It all began during an innocent routine cleaning, when the x-rays revealed that one tooth had gone rogue. The official term? Resorption. My understanding? The tooth was staging a quiet rebellion and needed to be stopped before it descended into full molar mutiny.

Enter: Operation Root Canal + Crown Replacement. A heroic two-part intervention to rescue the situation. Unfortunately, my memory didn’t get the memo.

Thanks to post-trip brain fog, I merrily began my Tuesday—running errands, mowing the lawn, blissfully unaware I was supposed to be horizontal in a dentist’s chair. That illusion ended with a phone call: “Hi, are you on your way?”

Cue the wallet grab, a half-jog-half-panic-sprint to the clinic, and a fashionably late arrival, 15 minutes behind schedule. The drama begins.

The procedure itself wasn’t painful—modern dentistry is surprisingly gentle. Even the needle was considerate enough to come with a numbing warm-up act. Mostly, it was just an awkward hour of impersonating a yawning statue while a dental team played a symphony inside my mouth with tiny instruments.

Post-procedure, I emerged a bit disoriented but victorious. Naturally, I rewarded myself in the most responsible adult way possible: cupcakes. (Yes, plural. Stress management is real.)

Despite the pre-procedure anxiety and the frantic dash to the dentist, the worst part was honestly the guilt of forgetting the appointment—thank you, Google Calendar, for not saving me this time. But the tooth drama was caught early, and that’s something to chew on (gently, of course).

Back home, I resumed mowing, showered like a civilized human, and whipped up dinner. As for the cupcakes, I did offer one to my wife. She declined. So I ate both. No regrets. They were spectacular. Her loss. My gain—literally, considering I’ve been losing weight unintentionally. Cupcake therapy: highly recommended.

April has been… eventful. Between the Indiana trip and spontaneous dental sabotage, it’s been a wild ride. But May is knocking, and so is my birthday, hopefully with fewer drills and more frosting.