Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke
Temperatures continue their dramatic plunge, but at least today I had the privilege of staying indoors. Unfortunately, it was laundry day—which means for several tragic hours, I was deprived of my robe and my properly functioning hoodie.
Yes, I do have a backup hoodie.
No, its broken zipper does not inspire confidence.
Wearing it feels like wearing a coat that refuses to commit.
So, for a few chilly hours each week, I endure mild suffering while the dryer does its heroic work. It’s temporary discomfort. I’ve decided not to engineer a complex solution. I can survive three hours of inconvenience without launching a research project.
We were spoiled by an unusually warm Christmas, so these low-20°F days feel especially rude. Meanwhile, my wife still goes outside for her morning exercise as if she personally signed a treaty with winter. She has Canadian credentials and a winter jacket that appears to be indestructible. I suspect it could survive the next ice age.
I now own warm running pants, which has significantly reduced my outdoor complaints. Oddly enough, I feel colder inside the house. My wife keeps it at 65°F. It’s not unbearable—just motivational. Since last year, I’ve adopted a simple solution: if I feel cold, I plank.
It’s efficient.
- I get stronger.
- I get warmer.
- I stop whining.
Exercise as central heating. Highly recommend.
Our cat, meanwhile, has discovered that I radiate heat. According to my wife, I am apparently a “portable furnace.” The kitten agrees. She camps on my lap while I work, converting me into a heated workstation.
However, this same angel becomes chaos incarnate at night. She developed the charming habit of attacking her toy mouse at 2:00 AM directly on our bed. Nothing says deep sleep like sudden feline warfare.
My solution: confiscate the mouse before bedtime.
Her solution: hide the mouse somewhere I can’t find it.
She’s entering what my wife calls “cat adolescence”—a stage characterized by selective hearing and bold experimentation. Recently, she’s decided that kitchen counters are now part of her sovereign territory. She’s stronger and more muscular than our older cat and enjoys launching herself onto elevated surfaces like a tiny Olympic gymnast.
The problem arises when I’m cooking.
There is something mildly alarming about a cat leaping toward the counter while I’m holding a knife. I gently relocate her to the floor. She complains loudly, as if I’ve unjustly exiled her from culinary greatness.
Between the cold house, strategic planking, and a counter-climbing kitten, winter remains lively.
At least I’m never bored.