Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke
I was peacefully negotiating with my pillow when my wife—clearly operating on a higher level of meteorological awareness—declared that we needed to go grocery shopping immediately. Not later. Not “after coffee.” Now.
According to her internal weather radar (which, frankly, has an impressive accuracy rate after 20+ years in Canada), a snowstorm was approaching within one to two hours. She had already gone out for her morning exercise, assessed the atmospheric mood, and preemptively prepared the driveway like a seasoned general before battle. Snow shovels? Strategically placed. Access? Efficient. Husband? Still half asleep.
Naturally, I complied.
Still blinking like a confused owl, I grabbed the grocery list and collected our two empty gallon water bottles—because nothing says “adult responsibility” quite like remembering hydration logistics before a snowstorm. We usually shop in the evening, but venturing out in the morning felt oddly peaceful. To my surprise, the store was much quieter than expected. Either we were exceptionally early… or everyone else had already sensed the coming snow apocalypse.
My wife, ever the planner, had finalized the weekly menu by Thursday. This meant our grocery mission was less “wandering and wondering” and more “strategic acquisition.” We secured everything for the week, plus two fresh gallons of water—barely. The shelf was already looking suspiciously empty, a silent sign that others had also received the same snowy premonition.
We were, quite honestly, lucky.
The last time a major snowstorm visited, we were effectively trapped in our house for a week. Our home sits behind a steep hill that transforms into an icy boss-level obstacle the moment snow accumulates. Climbing it becomes less “going out” and more “mountaineering with groceries.”
When we returned home, our cat was stationed at the window like a tiny, furry security officer on duty. Her head popped up the moment she spotted us, eyes wide with the dramatic concern of someone who clearly believed we had been gone for years rather than minutes. She often waits there whenever we leave, supervising our life choices from behind the glass.
By then, the snow had already begun—light at first, almost polite. But as we settled back inside, it quickly grew more confident, blanketing the area with over an inch of snow.
In retrospect, our early grocery expedition was not just productive. It was heroic. Or at least strategically wise.
Now the real question is Monday.
Artemis has her spay surgery scheduled, and we are quietly hoping the roads will cooperate. If not, we may once again find ourselves negotiating with snow, hills, and fate. But for now, we are stocked, prepared, and safely indoors—exactly where one should be when winter decides to make an entrance.