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When Laundry Plans Go Sideways (and Your Wife Outruns You Anyway)

Written June 4, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

You know that sinking feeling you get when something’s just not right—and then it hits you like a sock to the face? That was me, late last night, when I realized I had completely forgotten to do the laundry. Not just any laundry, mind you—the sacred post-yardwork laundry I committed to on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You see, I cleverly tied this task to mowing the lawn, mainly because our yard seems to be hosting an exclusive flea convention these days. Despite treatment, they’re still lurking like tiny vampires with a vendetta. So, off come the clothes right after yard work and straight into the washer—in theory.

Last night, the theory failed. Spectacularly.

By the time I remembered, it was far too late to rescue the load. Cue mild domestic chaos this morning.

As fate would have it, I was supposed to wash my wife’s exercise clothes—including her favorite running pants. And of course, she discovered this right before her early morning run. Now, if you’re picturing a dramatic meltdown involving yoga mats and laundry baskets, rest assured: no such thing occurred. My wife is made of sturdier stuff. She simply used her backup pants. Crisis averted, no tears shed, treadmill unbothered.

Honestly, I suspected she wouldn’t skip her run. Ever since the sun decided to stop ghosting us, she’s been energized like a solar panel on espresso. She’s rediscovered her love for the morning light as summer approaches, and let’s just say her energy now lasts all day. Like, from sunrise to are-you-still-talking-at-10. Kind of energy. I love it for her. Truly.

Anyway, the only real casualty here was the schedule. So today began with me tossing laundry into the machine before my run, then sprinting back to shift it to the dryer after my run—domestic multitasking at its finest.

Now, in our household, laundry isn’t just a weekly chore. It’s practically a sport. We’re both pretty active—my wife exercises every day, and I’m not far behind with my runs, yardwork, and weekend DIY projects. We also go through towels at a suspiciously high rate. Are we drying off or reenacting water ballet? Unclear.

Still, our 12-year-old washing machine soldiers on. Like a trusty old knight with a spinning lance.

And as for forgetting? Well, it happens. Even to people like me, who have built survival systems out of schedules ever since a brain stroke rewired my memory circuits. My occupational therapist taught me to tie tasks together (mow = wash clothes = prevent tick attack). For the most part, it works. And luckily, my memory stayed sharp after the stroke—so sharp that I finished speech therapy in three weeks. With a bit of help from my wife, some card games with my mom, and the noble therapeutic power of video games (yes, for real).

My wife likes to remind me that even people without a stroke forget things—especially if they don’t write them down. Maybe that’s why she lives by her to-do lists like a general preparing for battle. So, I guess I shouldn’t beat myself up over one rogue laundry day.

The important thing? I got the laundry done. Eventually.

And hey—clean pants, happy wife, no ticks. That’s a win in my book.

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From Dentist to Lawn Duty: A Stroke Survivor’s Summer Morning Routine

Written June 3, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today didn’t go as planned—but then again, when do plans actually stick?

Usually, I begin my mornings with a showdown against our lawn, racing the rising sun to finish before the heat starts hissing like a kettle left too long on the stove. But not today. Today, the dentist called, and my grass lost the battle for my time slot.

My appointment was right in that awkward window—not early enough to mow before, not late enough to ignore. So I fell back on my winter schedule, which basically means breakfast first and hoping the weather gods stay merciful until I get back.

Our dental office is close enough to walk, which is handy since I haven’t driven since my brain decided to throw a surprise party for itself ten years ago—otherwise known as a stroke. My reflexes slowed, and according to my wife, the hospital had to “poke a hole in your skull to let the chaos out.” Charming, right?

Ever since driving has been a no-go, even after a decade, my wife insists it’s too risky. “It’s not just about you,” she reminds me. “It’s about the mailboxes, pedestrians, and squirrels with dreams.”

She’s right. I grumble less than I used to.

Thankfully, I have options. If she’s free, she drives me. If not, I Uber like a suburban celebrity. It’s not bad, actually. She keeps saying that self-driving cars are coming soon anyway—cars that don’t need me at the wheel. Given how tricky life was for her back in her Montreal days without a license—metro, bus, walk, repeat—I know she gets how frustrating it can be.

Still, every so often, I miss driving. Just a little. Okay, maybe a lot. But until we’ve got a robot car parked in the driveway, I’m sticking to walking distance and lawn duty.

Which brings me back to this afternoon.

After surviving the dentist’s poking and polishing, I returned home, squinted at the sun like it owed me money, and decided to go for it. The heat was there, sure, but it wasn’t as vicious as last year’s “bake-your-socks” level heatwave.

I powered up the mower and got to work. I managed to tame the wild half of the yard I skipped last week. Progress! The lawn looks… slightly less like it’s auditioning for a jungle documentary.

It’s the little victories that count.

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Rain, Retrievers, and the Relentless Runner: How I Beat the Odds (But Not My Pace Time)

Written May 30, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

The last few weeks, I’ve been running like a champ—clocking solid times, striding with purpose, and imagining myself as the hero of my own underdog sports movie. This morning, though, the sky had other ideas. I was fired up for a speedy 5km, but Nashville had slipped into one of its gray, brooding moods again.

Storms and surprise rain showers have been far more clingy this year than last. Thunderstorms seem to schedule themselves precisely during my outdoor activities, as if the weather has a grudge against cardio and lawn maintenance. Just last Sunday, rain washed out our planned Sunday walk with my wife, and I’m still a little bitter about it.

Still, I usually run through rain unless lightning is doing jazz hands in the sky. Today was no different. The skies were just moody, not angry, so I laced up. It wasn’t raining when I started—but, of course, a few minutes in, it let loose. No thunder, though, so I kept running like a soggy but determined penguin.

Then, during a quick water break, I paused my running app. Classic move. But I forgot to restart it. The rain, apparently not satisfied with merely soaking me, also decided to sabotage my tech game. By the time I noticed, I had already run quite a bit—off the grid. I was more annoyed than I care to admit, not just at the weather, but at myself.

And just when I thought I’d had my quota of morning mayhem, cue the canine cameo: a golden retriever, furious at the sight of me running (again), snapped free from the little girl walking him and charged. That’s right—a golden retriever. Not a Doberman. Not a Rottweiler. Lassie’s less-friendly cousin. Apparently, I’m his chosen nemesis in the neighborhood.

When I asked my wife if the dog always did this, she blinked and said, “He’s never done it to me while I was running before.” Fantastic. So this retriever has made me his personal vendetta. I didn’t fancy a sprint-fueled showdown, so I slowed down and zigzagged my way to safety, which tanked my pace at that corner.

All in all, today’s run was a mess. Wet, tech-glitched, dog-stalked. My precious pace time was wrecked. But then I realized—I still ran. I did the thing. Sure, I didn’t set a personal record, but I moved, I sweated, and I kept my promise to myself.

I’ve been focusing a lot lately on staying healthy—not just for fitness goals or vanity metrics, but for deeper reasons. My kidneys need care. My brain needs healing. So I hydrate religiously, eat mindfully, train my muscles, and yes, even run through rogue weather and canine ambushes.

My wife says we become what we focus on. If I focus too much on the mishaps, the missed pace, the muddy shoes—I’ll become the guy who grumbles through life. But if I pay attention to progress, to the act of showing up despite setbacks, then maybe I will become something better. She’s probably right. (She usually is.)

Today, I didn’t hit my target pace. But I ran. I moved through the rain. I dodged a golden missile. And I even threw in some bonus distance to make up for the paused app.

At the end of the day, I did the work my body needed. And that, my friends, is what counts.

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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?