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A Comedy of Errors: My Morning Adventure in Forgetfulness
Written February 25, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
This morning was a disaster of my own making—an entirely avoidable one, at that. It all started with a simple yet catastrophic decision: going back to sleep.
My wife had to leave early for work, so I woke up with her, saw her off, and then—because I am, at times, my own worst enemy—I crawled back into bed. When my alarm rang at its usual time, I reasoned that there was no immediate need to rise and shine. Why rush? The world could wait. I could bask in the warmth of my blankets for just a little while longer.
Ah, but then—the horror! Like a bolt of lightning, it struck me. I had an appointment at the phlebotomy lab. This morning. In a moment, I went from blissful comfort to full-blown panic mode.
Suddenly, I was a man on a mission. Breakfast was a frantic affair—more a feeding frenzy than a meal. I barely finished swallowing before summoning an Uber to whisk me across town. Somehow, by sheer force of will (and the generosity of traffic lights), I arrived roughly on time. My reward? A needle in my arm and the satisfaction of knowing I had narrowly avoided disaster.
The Saga of the Quarterly Lab Visit
This whole lab ordeal isn’t a weekly thing, thank goodness. It happens once every three months—a fun little prelude to my nephrologist appointments. The lab used to be conveniently located within walking distance, but those were the good old days. Now, thanks to the ever-evolving world of healthcare logistics, both my doctor’s office and the lab have migrated to opposite ends of the city. Since my wife was at work, Uber was my chariot of choice.
A Kidney’s Hard-Won Victory
Once upon a time, my kidneys were in such dire shape that a transplant was on the horizon—stage five of kidney disease, the final boss level. But through some miracle of discipline (and possibly sheer stubbornness), I clawed my way back to stage three. Even my doctors were impressed. Kidneys don’t just bounce back like that. It’s been an uphill battle—strict diet, exercise, a truckload of medication—but I intend to keep it that way. If my kidneys have fought this hard, the least I can do is not sabotage them.
The Curious Case of the Urgency-Driven Wife
Speaking of discipline, my wife operates on a completely different level. She thrives on urgency. More time? Not helpful. More deadlines? That’s where she shines. She has goals stacked like dominos—lifelong ones, yearly ones, monthly ones, and even daily ones. Meanwhile, I apparently struggle with remembering a single appointment that’s been on my calendar for months.
A Morning Lost in Translation
In my defense, I used to have a built-in scheduling assistant—my wife. For years, she managed my appointments with an efficiency that I now recognize I took for granted. But since 2017, I’ve been the proud (if slightly forgetful) owner of my own calendar. And today, that system failed spectacularly. I’m fairly certain I ignored every phone alarm. Maybe I was half-asleep. Maybe I was just being me.
The Aftermath of Chaos
Once I got back home—blood drawn, dignity slightly bruised—I tried to restore order to my day. I worked out, did my language practice, and checked off my morning to-do list. By some miracle, I still had time before dinner prep to catch my breath and, of course, write about my self-inflicted chaos. What is the moral of the story? Maybe don’t ignore your alarms. Or better yet, don’t trust a half-asleep brain to make scheduling decisions. It does not have your best interests at heart.
A Birthday, A Housewarming, and a Dash of Chaos
Written February 22, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
Today is a bit of a whirlwind—but in the best way possible. First off, it’s my sister’s birthday, which is reason enough to celebrate. Even better, we’re heading over to her brand-new house, a place she and her family just bought. However, there’s a slight plot twist: her household has been on a merry-go-round of sickness for weeks. What is the official party status? Still a little up in the air.
She hadn’t confirmed anything earlier, but I assumed the celebration was still happening. Turns out, I guessed right—she texted this morning that we’re good to go. That means I get to see her, which is great news, and my wife—who adores our niece—is downright thrilled. She’s been working on my sister’s birthday gifts for months. Usually, she buys them early and lets them sit around like museum exhibits, waiting for their grand unveiling. This time, though, she’s been swamped with year-end work, so guess who got the honor of wrapping everything? That’s right—me. And if I do say so myself, those gifts are wrapped with precision, if not perfection.
Of course, with all the festivities, my well-laid weekend plans had to shuffle around. Running? Rescheduled. Vacuuming? Pushed to tomorrow—without a hint of regret. My wife, ever the planner, had already mapped out next week’s meals, and rather than making a separate trip, she cleverly added her bag to the grocery list. That way, we can swing by Kroger on the way home and check that errand off without a fuss. Efficiency at its finest.
One small concern: my wife pointed out that lingering too long at my sister’s might not be the best idea, given their recent bout of illness. Fair point. Usually, my brother-in-law takes charge of the kitchen—he’s a fantastic cook and loves whipping up meals for any and all occasions. But this time, they’re playing it safe with Chinese takeout. As for dessert? That’s covered. I baked a cake yesterday, and it’s ready to steal the show.
Now, let’s talk about my wife’s relationship with time—she fills every minute of the day like it’s a carry-on bag that absolutely must fit in the overhead compartment. Even on a day like this, her schedule is packed. She’s up at an ungodly hour, claiming it makes her more productive. And honestly? It works. The woman does not stop—unless she’s ill (which is rare because she’s extra careful about germs, mostly for my sake). I, on the other hand, take a more… measured approach. I know exactly what I need to get done this weekend, and I’m confident it’ll all be wrapped up smoothly.
For now, though, the to-do list can wait. We’re off to celebrate, see the new house, and enjoy some cake. Priorities, right?
Snow Day Struggles: Running Plans Thwarted, but Perspective Gained
Written February 19, 2025
reviewed 3/2
Hello Dear Readers,
Well, there goes my run—canceled, thanks to a generous overnight delivery from Mother Nature. Snow blanketed everything, and with temperatures stubbornly hanging below freezing, it’s not melting anytime soon. Schools across Nashville have shut their doors, throwing parents into chaos. Do they brave the roads and head to work, or do they scramble to find last-minute childcare? The great snow day debate. It’s a logistical nightmare for many, but keeping kids safe comes first.
For us, though? Not exactly a crisis. My wife works from home now, a far cry from her former 80-hour-a-week, always-on-the-move lifestyle. She used to thrive on that pace—until I nearly died from a brain stroke. That changed everything. She still brings it up sometimes, but I know there’s a lot she doesn’t say. She doesn’t need to. The shift in her priorities says it all. These days, she avoids crowded spaces, dodges anyone who so much as sniffles, and keeps a close eye on me. To most people, I probably look fine—no obvious signs of past medical issues. But my kidneys are still compromised, and something as minor as a cold could spiral into something serious. My wife knows that. And she never forgets.
Truthfully, I don’t blame her. I worked hard—really hard—to regain as much function as possible. The last thing I want is to put my family through that kind of fear again. Once was more than enough.
Remote work has been a game-changer for her. Some people hate it—too many distractions, not enough structure. But for her? It’s perfect. She thrives on creating processes, developing automation, and solving complex problems that most people wouldn’t even know where to begin. Nothing really breaks her focus. Well, almost nothing. The fear of my near-death experience still lingers in the background, even if she doesn’t always talk about it. Instead of letting it paralyze her, she adapted. If she can’t erase the fear, she can at least manage it—and working from home is part of that strategy.
As for me, I have mixed feelings about today’s forced break. On one hand, I wasn’t exactly excited about an hour-long run in below-freezing temperatures. On the other hand, I don’t like missing scheduled runs. Skipping throws off my rhythm, and I know how easily one missed workout can turn into two, then three. But if I can’t run, I can at least make myself useful.
Shoveling it is. Not the full driveway—that’s asking too much—but enough to clear a path for any brave delivery drivers attempting to make their rounds. Amazon doesn’t care about the weather, and I’d rather not have packages stranded in a snowbank. It’s not the workout I planned, but it’s still movement, and at least it gives me an excuse to step outside.
So, no run today. But I’ll survive. And hopefully, so will my perfectly timed book order.
Running Through the Chill: A Battle Against Nashville’s Winter
Written February 19, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
February is nearly in the rearview mirror, but Nashville isn’t ready to let go of winter just yet. The city seems determined to keep us wrapped in layers, clinging to the cold like an overzealous guest who refuses to leave the party. And now, just to keep things interesting, the forecast is throwing snow into the mix. Whether it actually happens or not is anyone’s guess, but I wouldn’t put it past the weather to surprise us.
Now, I don’t mind a crisp winter run—cold air is invigorating, after all—but snow? That’s where I draw the line. My neighborhood is already an obstacle course of hills, one of which looms in front of my house like a miniature Everest. Running on it when it’s dry is a challenge. Running on it when it’s covered in snow? That’s not a workout; that’s an audition for an injury.
I learned this the hard way a few years ago. It was the day before Christmas, and my wife and I had grand plans to deliver small gifts to our neighbors. Simple enough, right? Wrong. The snow had turned the streets into a treacherous, ice-covered battleground. Every step felt like a high-stakes balancing act, and we spent more time trying not to wipe out than actually walking. Since that day, I have made a firm rule: running on snow is a terrible idea. The whole point of running is to stay healthy, not to end up in a cast.
That said, I’m not letting the cold stop me. I still plan to hit my weekly running target, snow or no snow (preferably no snow). Last summer was brutal—I struggled through one of the hottest seasons I can remember, dragging myself through heat so intense it felt like I was melting. But those struggles paid off. In November and December, I pushed hard to hit my year-end distance goal, and in the process, I did something unexpected—I got faster.
Now, every time I run, I shave a little more off my pace. I’m within five seconds per kilometer of my end-of-year target, and that progress fuels me. My wife is impressed whenever I show her my running logs, and honestly, that extra bit of admiration is a great motivator. It’s always nice to have a cheering section, even if it’s just one person.
Of course, I know not every run will be great. Some days will be slow, some will be frustrating, and some will make me question why I do this to myself at all. But I’ve learned that bad days are just that—days. They don’t define the journey. The key is to keep moving, keep improving, and not expect progress to happen overnight.
So, I’ll keep running. I’ll keep chasing my goals. But if the snow does show up tomorrow? Well, I’ll be watching it from inside with a hot drink in hand.
Rain, Rogue GPS, and the Mysterious Vanishing Kilometers
Written February 16, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
Some runs feel like a victory lap. Others? A battle against the elements, technology, and one’s own patience. Yesterday’s run firmly belonged in the latter category.
It all started with rain. Not the cinematic kind, where you look heroic, sprinting through a storm with determination in your eyes. No, this was the persistently annoying variety—too light to justify quitting but steady enough to be irritating. I ran anyway, determined to get my usual 10k in. The universe, however, had other plans.
About halfway through, I glanced at my running app and noticed something was off. It had only logged one kilometer. One. I had covered at least five. I stopped, restarted the app, and, like any stubborn runner with a love-hate relationship with technology, decided to run another 5k just to make sure the second half was tracked correctly. It worked—sort of. The second 5k showed up fine, but the first half of my run had been swallowed into the digital abyss, never to be seen again. And just like that, my running records were now permanently haunted by a mysterious missing 4k.
Curious (and mildly exasperated), I looked into why this happened. Turns out, GPS signals don’t always play nice with rain. While light rain doesn’t do much, heavier rain can scatter the signals enough to make devices struggle. That explained my app’s refusal to acknowledge half my workout. The logic makes sense, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating when you’re staring at an incomplete run in your stats.
Now, if you ask my wife, she’d say I shouldn’t even be looking at the daily numbers. “Look at the long-term progress,” she always tells me. “People get discouraged when they fixate on single-day stats. That’s how they end up quitting.” She had to learn that lesson the hard way—being results-driven meant she used to stress over every little fluctuation. Me? Not so much. I like having numbers, but I don’t let them dictate my mood. Still, I see her point. If a missing 4k had the power to make or break my commitment to running, I probably wouldn’t have lasted this long.
At the end of the day, my legs still got their workout, my heart still did its thing, and the health benefits remained intact—regardless of what my app said. It’s a minor annoyance, sure, but it’s not like my fitness depends on perfect tracking. That being said, I won’t pretend I wasn’t tempted to manually add the missing kilometers just to restore my stats. I resisted. (Barely.)
So, the moral of the story? Rain happens. Technology fails. And sometimes, you just have to run another 5k out of sheer stubbornness. But in the grand scheme of things, what matters isn’t a missing stat—it’s the habit, the discipline, and the fact that I got out there in the first place. And if I ever need proof, my sore legs will be more than happy to remind me.
A Tale of Two Measurements: Fahrenheit vs. Celsius and the Great Temperature Mix-Up
Written February 13, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
It was the best of systems, it was the worst of systems. It was logical, it was absurd. It was based on science, it was based on the whims of some 18th-century guy named Fahrenheit. It was Metric, it was Imperial.
And somehow, my wife and I are stuck between the two.
Winter has been playing an unpredictable game of hopscotch with the thermometer, bouncing wildly between tolerable and arctic. Fortunately, these erratic shifts seem to have synchronized—however unintentionally—with my running schedule. Today? A day of icy misery. Tomorrow? Warmer. But today, I don’t have to go outside, so the cold is merely an interesting fact rather than a personal threat.
My wife, however, was not so lucky this morning. She sprang out of bed, eager to check the temperature, brimming with optimism. And then, as she puts it, the betrayal hit her like an unexpected mouthful of wasabi.
Her tragic error? She read 13 degrees on the thermometer and—being half-asleep and still loyal to Celsius—assumed it meant a reasonable 13°C (55°F). Reality? A bone-chilling 28°F (-5°C). Her reaction? She said it felt like eating horseradish straight from the jar.
In her defense, it was still dark outside, and after a lifetime spent in countries that use a rational temperature system, she remains skeptical—if not outright resentful—of Fahrenheit. And honestly? Who can blame her?
The United States still clings to the Fahrenheit scale, an inheritance from 18th-century Britain. The twist? Britain abandoned it. By the mid-20th century, they embraced Celsius, while the U.S. refused to budge. In 1975, Congress even passed the Metric Conversion Act, an ambitious attempt to drag America into the modern world. The result? Nothing happened. People ignored it, businesses shrugged, and the government lost interest.
Today, only three countries still use Fahrenheit:
- The United States
- Liberia
- The Cayman Islands
That’s our elite club. Not exactly a strong case for sticking with it.
My wife, being Canadian, has lived through a uniquely baffling hybrid system. Canada officially switched to metric in the late 20th century, but instead of fully committing, they decided to… dabble. Schools taught the metric system, but somehow, people still measured their height in feet and inches. Gasoline is sold in liters, but are things at Home Depot? Inches and feet. And building codes? That’s where things get truly absurd.
While attempting to build a shed, my wife discovered that Canadian construction codes measure length and width in Imperial but height in Metric. Apparently, consistency is overrated.
And so, every winter morning, my wife is forced to perform a mental gymnastics routine—converting temperatures, translating measurements, and questioning why humans ever thought two separate systems were a good idea. I, meanwhile, will be indoors, watching this comedy of errors unfold with a hot drink in hand.
Because when it comes to winter survival, the best strategy is knowing when to stay inside.
A Sleepy Start and the Mystery of Low Blood Pressure
Written February 11, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
Ever had one of those mornings where getting out of bed feels like trying to wade through wet cement? That was me today. Despite granting myself the rare luxury of an extra hour under the covers, I still woke up feeling like a sluggish, unmotivated lump of humanity.
Now, I could blame myself, but why do that when the weather makes such a convenient scapegoat? It’s been raining relentlessly, and the sky has been in a persistent state of gloom, with heavy clouds and rain making their best impression of a dreary 19th-century British novel. I’ve always underestimated just how much of a difference morning sunlight makes. That golden glow flicks a switch in your brain, signaling that it’s time to rise and shine. Without it, my internal wake-up mechanism malfunctions like a cheap alarm clock on its last legs.
My wife, who deals with chronically low blood pressure, often mentions feeling similarly on dreary mornings. She says that when I’m dragging myself around in a sleep-deprived fog, she’s likely experiencing an actual dip in blood pressure and heart rate. And she doesn’t just brush it off—her concern is real, especially since she lost an uncle to complications from low blood pressure.
Curious (and mildly paranoid), I checked my trusty health-tracking app. The report was… intriguing. In theory, I had gotten enough sleep, but several mid-sleep wake-ups likely disrupted my rest cycle. More importantly, my blood pressure had dipped just below 100/70—not alarmingly low, but lower than my usual. I made a mental note to bring this up with my doctor at my next visit. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that small changes can sometimes signal bigger trends, so I’ll be keeping an eye on my morning numbers for the next few days.
This whole situation has made me appreciate the wonders of modern technology. Until recently, I had never tracked my biometrics so closely. Now, my smartwatch diligently logs my heart rate and blood pressure around the clock, offering a wealth of data I would have never otherwise noticed. My doctor, of course, loves this—having a continuous log makes it much easier to spot patterns and assess whether any adjustments to medication or diet are necessary.
What’s fascinating is how “normal” numbers don’t always mean all is well. Sometimes, a sudden spike or drop in heart rate or blood pressure can be more telling than any routine lab work. Even dehydration can skew results, making a person feel completely off, even if everything appears fine on paper.
But, good news! After some much-needed movement and a bit of exercise, I’m finally feeling human again. The grogginess has lifted, and I’m back to my usual self—well, almost. If only I could persuade the sun to make a guest appearance, this day would be off to a truly perfect start.
Until then, I’ll just keep an eye on the numbers, sip some water, and pretend that coffee counts as a healthy drink.
My Electrifying Comeback: A Tale of Fixing Things (and Not Getting Electrocuted)
Written February 10, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
I’ve always had a knack for tinkering with electronics. As a kid, if an appliance went on strike, my parents would sigh, shrug, and hand it over to me. More often than not, I’d manage to breathe life back into it—no manual required, just sheer determination and the reckless confidence of youth. Fixing things just came naturally.
Then came my brain stroke and, with it, my occupational therapist’s stern decree: No power tools. No risky business. No electrocuting yourself, thank you very much. Apparently, the combination of a recovering brain and high-voltage currents wasn’t a match made in heaven. My wife, ever the responsible one, took this warning very seriously and promptly confiscated anything with sharp edges, moving parts, or the potential to zap me into next week.
For a while, she became the household repair technician by default. To her credit, she did an admirable job, though I suspect she didn’t enjoy it nearly as much as I once did. But the brain is a fascinating thing, and my wife, ever the believer in the power of neuroplasticity, gradually reintroduced me to minor electrical repairs—so long as they didn’t involve high-voltage shocks or the possibility of losing a finger. “You can fix things again,” she declared one day, “but only the ones that won’t land you in the ER.” Fair enough.
This week’s test case? Our central vacuum cleaner’s agitator head.
Saturday was a vacuuming day in our house, and I was making my usual rounds when I noticed something was off. The brush inside the vacuum head had stopped spinning, turning it from a useful cleaning device into a glorified floor-scraper. A quick inspection revealed the usual suspect: a broken drive belt.
Fixing it was well within my wheelhouse. I tracked down a replacement online, my wife ordered it, and by early morning, it had arrived, sitting on our porch like a tiny parcel of redemption. A screwdriver, a bit of patience, and voilà—the vacuum was back in business. Naturally, I had to take it for a test run, and I’m happy to report that my repair skills remain intact.
The whole experience sent me spiraling down memory lane. As a kid, my insatiable curiosity often led me to take things apart just to see how they worked. Sometimes, this resulted in brilliant discoveries. Other times… well, let’s just say my parents learned to hide anything they weren’t willing to sacrifice to my “scientific investigations.” More than once, I dismantled something with great enthusiasm, only to realize halfway through that I had no idea how to put it back together.
These days, I’ve acquired a bit more wisdom. I no longer dismantle things I can’t confidently reassemble. But it’s nice to know that, despite everything, my hands still remember the thrill of fixing things—and that my wife hasn’t completely revoked my repair privileges.
For now.
Winter’s Sneaky Comeback and My Sore-Legged Recovery Day
Written February 9, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
This morning, I innocently peeked outside, expecting to see the same pleasant scenery from just a few days ago. Instead, I was met with a brutal slap of icy air, sharp enough to make me reconsider all my life choices. The mild temperatures of the past few days had been a cruel deception. The tiny green sprouts that had optimistically popped up earlier in the week? Gone. Buried under the relentless grip of winter’s encore performance.
I swear, nature has a cruel sense of humor. One day, it’s all sunshine and warm breezes, luring you into a false sense of security. The next, it sucker-punches you with a reality check in the form of bone-chilling wind. And today? Today was the kind of cold that makes you rethink your entire relationship with the great outdoors.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to deal with it. Sundays are my designated recovery days, meaning I had no reason to step outside and voluntarily freeze. As long as I stayed inside my warm little fortress, winter could do whatever it wanted. I wasn’t participating.
Now, about my legs. After months of dedicated running, I’ve built up enough endurance that muscle soreness rarely visits me. So, when I woke up and felt that familiar ache, I knew I had done something right. Yesterday’s run must have been extra brutal because my legs were making their displeasure known. Stiff, sore, and just dramatic enough to make me shuffle around like I had aged a few decades overnight.
But soreness is secretly a good thing. It means progress. It means my muscles are rebuilding, hopefully, stronger and faster than before. Maybe—just maybe—this is the kind of soreness that results in a breakthrough. Perhaps next week, I’ll find myself shaving seconds off my pace, gliding through my runs like some sort of gazelle. Or, you know, at least not feeling like I’m dragging bricks for legs.
In the meantime, today is all about stretching. I’ve actually been pretty consistent with it, mostly because I found a way to trick my brain into doing it. The secret? Pairing it with planking. After every plank session, I roll right into some leg stretches. It’s a system that works suspiciously well, and since I usually plank multiple times a day, I end up getting in at least three or more solid stretching sessions without even thinking about a small habit, but a game-changer for keeping my legs in running shape.
So, while the outside world insists on being a frozen wasteland, I’ll be in here, stretching, planking, and basking in the warmth of my personal sanctuary. I’ll let winter do its thing, and I’ll do mine—until tomorrow when I have to lace up my running shoes again and face whatever fresh weather betrayal awaits.
But that’s a problem for future me. Today, I am inside. Today, I recovered. And today, I pretend that winter doesn’t exist.
Weather Betrayal and the Art of Finding Joy Anyway
Written February 5, 2025
Hello, dear readers!
Monday’s run was glorious. The kind of day that tricks you into believing winter is finally packing its bags and heading for the hills. The sun was shining, the temperature was perfect, and for a fleeting moment, I thought, Maybe—just maybe—spring has arrived.
Ha.
The universe must have heard my foolish optimism and decided to intervene immediately. By Tuesday, the temperature had plummeted 15 degrees. Today? Another 10. At this point, I half-expect to wake up tomorrow and find a fresh layer of snow just to complete winter’s petty revenge arc.
It’s still not as bitterly cold as last week, but somehow, that one warm day spoiled me. I had already started fantasizing about running in short sleeves again, and now I’m back to layering up like an Arctic explorer. Funny how a single glimpse of spring makes returning to winter feel even worse than before.
Adding to the tease, the warm spell coaxed some early greenery out of hiding. My wife, ever the keen observer, stood by the window, enjoying the sight of those fresh little sprouts. And then, as if winter took offense at our moment of joy, the cold came roaring back. Typical Midwest. Having lived here, I should’ve known better. Midwest weather doesn’t transition—it mood-swings.
But what’s the point of complaining? It won’t change a thing. Might as well put my feelings of betrayal, disappointment, and mild outrage into a neat little box labeled Things I Cannot Control. It’s a pretty full box at this point.
At least my walk to the doctor’s office yesterday was pleasant. The temperature was still hanging on to some remnants of warmth, and I even managed to enjoy the stroll. The appointment went smoothly—always a plus—and, as promised, I rewarded my responsible adulting with a cupcake on the way home.
Now, let’s talk about that cupcake. Was my favorite flavor available? No. Was I momentarily devastated? A little. But I soldiered on, selected another, and—no surprises here—it was delicious. Honestly, I don’t think this bakery is even capable of making a bad cupcake. Some places just have that magic touch.
Of course, my wife, being the mysterious and perplexing individual she is, remains indifferent to cupcakes. I do not understand this. How does one simply not care about cupcakes? This is one of life’s great mysteries, alongside Why does toast always land butter-side down? and Why do socks vanish in the laundry? But alas, she was unmoved by my confectionary enthusiasm, so I had to enjoy my sweet reward solo. Her loss.
Let the temperatures play their cruel little games. I refuse to let them dictate my mood. If winter wants to be temperamental, fine—I’ll just keep finding my own ways to enjoy the day.
And if that happens to involve another cupcake next week? Well, who am I to argue with fate?