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Pushup Tuesday: A Tale of Perseverance and Pec Pec Glory
Written March 18, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
Tuesdays are for pushing—literally. It’s the day I dedicate to pushups, and no, not the orange-flavored frozen kind (though that would be delightful). I recently learned that working the same muscle groups on back-to-back days isn’t all that effective—who knew muscles liked variety too?
So, Tuesday is all about the push. And boy, do I have a pushy goal: 50 pushups in one set. I’ve been flirting with that number for weeks, always coming up short by a few reps. Just a handful away. Maddening.
Once upon a time, I was that gymnast kid who could whip out pull-ups and pushups like it was recess. But then life threw a massive wrench—aka a brain stroke—into my plans. Suddenly, workouts weren’t even on the menu. For a while, waking up was the main event. I spent the early months either unconscious or living in a dreamy fog of naps and nurses.
In the long-term care facility, my goals were humbler: eat without assistance, sleep through the night, and make it to the washroom without drama. Glamorous? No. Necessary? Absolutely. After mastering those, I graduated to walking, then stairs. Eventually, pushups re-entered the scene, stage left.
Starting over was humbling. My muscles had vanished like socks in the dryer. But I began again. Slowly, consistently, and with enough stubbornness to rival a toddler refusing vegetables. Over the years, I climbed back up to almost 50 pushups. Almost. That word haunted me.
Until this morning.
Today, with a bit of grimacing and a lot of determination, I hit 50. One clean set. No collapsing. No swearing (well, not much). Just pure, triumphant effort. And let me tell you—after weeks of frustration, it felt like winning a mini-Olympics in my living room.
Now, I’m not raising the bar just yet. I’ll keep 50 as my goal until it feels like a warm-up. Then I’ll inch it up to 55. Might take a week or two—or more—but I’ll get there. One push at a time.
What I’ve learned is this: small victories matter. This is my personal Kaizen—steady, deliberate improvement. Over the years, I’ve gone from zero to 50. I’ve hit plateaus, adjusted goals, and made peace with slow progress. Sometimes, I aimed too high and had to scale back. Other times, I surprised myself.
But through it all, I’ve become more patient. And more hopeful. Because if I can rise from not walking to nailing 50 pushups… who knows what else is possible?
Of Rainstorms, Sirens, and Stubborn Outlets: A Slice of Life from the Soggy Side
Written March 16, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
Last night, the heavens threw a tantrum. I’m talking a full-blown, drama-queen, thunder-and-lightning kind of storm—the sort that leaves your backyard looking less like a lawn and more like a swampy film set for Jurassic Park: Suburban Edition.
Behind our house lies a charming little forest, complete with a babbling brook that usually plays it cool. But after this storm? That “babble” turned into a bold announcement. The creek puffed up its chest and swelled until it was clearly visible from our windows, showing off like it just got a promotion.
We adore our backyard woods. It’s like having our own private wildlife documentary on a loop. Deer tiptoe in like they own the place, birds tweet IRL (no app required), and opossums, squirrels, and foxes casually pass through like it’s a local pub. The deer, in particular, love nosing around the creek. My wife, despite having lived here for years—and despite living in Canada where deer are practically neighborhood regulars—still squeals with delight every time she spots one. It’s adorable, if a little confusing.
Speaking of confusion, allow me to introduce the sirens. Yes, those sirens—mystical creatures of folklore, or in our case, adorable tiny things allegedly residing in our stream. My wife heard about them from a coworker, who also grew up in this area and fondly recalled her childhood siren sightings as if they were no big deal. One picture later, my wife was enchanted. I, on the other hand, spend enough time outside doing yard work to claim I may have seen one myself—though it might’ve just been a toad with attitude.
And the forest drama doesn’t stop there. We’ve got armadillos waddling around like tiny tanks and, most recently, a skunk (which my wife charmingly called a “skank”—possibly a typo, possibly not) who created a tear gas situation in our backyard. It was… memorable. Still, my wife finds peace in watching all this wildlife wander by. She says it calms her, reminds her of camping trips from her youth, and helps her believe—at least for a moment—that humans and animals might just be able to share the Earth peacefully despite our talent for wrecking the environment.
Now, onto the domestic front: the storm had a bonus gift for us. It decided to mess with our bathroom’s GFCI outlet—the one we rely on for our trusty water flosser. Of course, the circuit tripped and then, in classic GFCI fashion, refused to reset. My wife, unwilling to break her streak of impeccable dental hygiene, marched off to another part of the house with a working outlet like a flossing warrior on a mission.
Meanwhile, we’re both holding out hope that the outlet magically decides to cooperate once the rain stops—because clearly, that’s how electricity works, right? If not, I’ll have to MacGyver the situation with an extension cord long enough to plug into the next zip code. Failing that, it’s time to bring in a professional, AKA an electrician, who will hopefully diagnose the issue and not laugh too hard at our over-engineered flosser workaround.
So, to sum up: the storm flooded our yard, teased out any hiding local cryptids, and picked a fight with our bathroom outlet. But hey, at least the deer are happy.
When Running Slaps You With a Reality Check (But You Learn to Laugh Anyway)
Written March 13, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
Yesterday’s run? Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a Rocky-movie montage moment. My pace was dragging, my energy was shot, and the only thing sprinting was my inner critic. I pushed myself hard—maybe too hard—and when the numbers didn’t reflect the effort, I ended up in a full-on sulk spiral. Funny how chasing a goal with everything you’ve got can sometimes leave you feeling like you’ve been chasing your own tail.
Enter my wife, voice of reason, and resident bookworm. She told me about a book she reviewed—an advanced reader copy, no less. The book pointed out something profound: People often give up on their goals not because they lack motivation but because they’re too attached to the outcome. Oof. Guilty as charged. The same part of our brain that processes disappointment also houses our drive. So when that number on the scale or running app doesn’t look pretty, it punches our motivation in the gut.
Which explains why so many well-meaning folks throw in the towel on fitness goals. Or weight-loss goals. Or, say, not-treating-your-watch-like-a-judge goals like me.
But here’s where I’m learning to pivot. I try to zoom out. Instead of obsessing over yesterday’s data or last week’s sluggish stats, I look at the bigger picture. Okay, sure, last week wasn’t stellar—but I’m still running significantly faster than I did last year. And I don’t just mean by seconds. I mean full-on “last year me would’ve called this a miracle” levels of improvement.
Plus, it’s not just about speed. Running clears my head like nothing else. It gives me that sweet sense of accomplishment and resilience. My stamina? Way up. Five years ago, I’d be toast after a mile. Now? I’m a machine. A slightly wheezy, occasionally grumpy machine—but a machine nonetheless.
And let’s not forget the curveballs nature throws. Last summer? Total disaster. Heat waves turned every run into a survival challenge. I wasn’t logging progress—I was logging complaints. But I adapted. I started running earlier in the morning to dodge the furnace-level temps, and boom—problem, sort of solved. Sometimes, disappointment is just disguised data. It tells you what needs fixing. And once you tweak the system, you start winning again.
Now, logically, I know speed isn’t everything. The effort I’m putting in matters more. But let’s be honest—speed feels more real. You can see it. It’s flashy. Tangible. And occasionally heartbreaking.
Still, I don’t want to eliminate the disappointment entirely. Strange as it sounds, it fuels me. That tiny spark of “ugh, I want to do better” is often what lights the fire under my shoes. As long as that frustration doesn’t morph into burnout or self-loathing, I say let it stay. Harness it. Let it challenge you, not crush you.
So here I am—still running, still chasing, still learning not to take a bad day personally. Growth isn’t always linear. But if you look back far enough, you’ll see just how far you’ve come—and realize the finish line isn’t the only victory worth celebrating.
The Perils of Time Change and Skunks
Written March 10, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
Ah yes, it’s that time of year again—the dreaded time change. Most states in the U.S. go through this ritual, allegedly for a good reason, but let’s be honest: it’s mostly just a nuisance. My wife and I were both thoroughly unimpressed to find ourselves waking up to pre-dawn darkness this morning. Nothing says good morning like fumbling around in the dark, wondering why the universe has conspired against you.
As if losing an hour of morning light wasn’t bad enough, my wife had a less-than-pleasant encounter during her morning workout. She spotted a skunk. Yes, a skunk—nature’s own chemical warfare specialist, a creature that thrives under the cover of darkness. Speaking of skunks, we’ve had our own personal skunk horror story. One particularly cold winter evening, a skittish skunk got startled by the sudden roar of our heating system kicking on. In a panic, it unleashed its full arsenal. The wretched stench seeped into the house as warm air circulated, and out of all the rooms, my study bore the brunt of the assault. To this day, I suspect the culprit is the same smug little skunk my wife just spotted.
Now, she lives in fear of another skunk ambush during her workouts. And who could blame her? The absolute last thing anyone wants is to be doused in skunk spray before breakfast. That kind of disaster lingers. Literally.
My wife firmly believes that seasonal wildlife sightings are nature’s own calendar. According to her, as long as she’s still spotting owls and skunks, winter isn’t quite over yet. I can’t argue with that logic—especially since she’s the one out there facing these creatures while I’m still contemplating whether to get out of bed.
But back to the time change. I can’t shake the feeling that this abrupt shift disrupts the natural rhythm of things. Just last week, I was waking up to bright, golden dawns, but now? Darkness, again. It’s a setback. For my wife, the frustration lies in losing that perfect moment at the end of her workout—the serene sight of the sun rising. For me, it’s a simple yet profound demotivator. Whether it’s pitch dark or broad daylight when I wake up, my enthusiasm for running remains highly weather-dependent.
I had grand plans to start running first thing in the morning starting today, but alas, the temperature still has other ideas. It’s just a bit too chilly at dawn to leap enthusiastically into a jog, so that schedule change is officially postponed until further notice. Let’s call it weather permitting.
Besides, I have a bigger goal in mind—I want to avoid running in the unbearable heat of summer. To do that, I’ll need to ease into an earlier schedule as the temperatures allow. Of course, March in Nashville is a wildcard, with temperatures swinging wildly between springtime bliss and winter’s last hurrah. So, my approach is simple: stay flexible, monitor the forecasts, and start my sunrise runs when the weather demands it.
Until then, I’ll just have to deal with the darkness, the cold, and the looming possibility of rogue skunks. Welcome to spring.
My Water Bottle is Now My Boss
Written March 8, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
Yesterday, I embarked on a noble quest—one that involves discipline, perseverance, and a very bossy water bottle. My wife, in her infinite wisdom (and slight exasperation with my forgetfulness), got us matching bottles with a hydration schedule printed on the side. Every hour, there’s a new line taunting me, reminding me to drink up before I inevitably fail my kidneys again. The concept is brilliant: sip gradually instead of realizing at 3 p.m. that I haven’t had a drop of water all day and then chugging a ridiculous amount like I’m a lost traveler in the desert.
As someone with chronic kidney disease, hydration isn’t just a good idea—it’s non-negotiable. But here’s the problem: I forget. A lot. When I do remember, I go into panic mode and overcompensate, leading to an uncomfortable, sloshy-stomach situation that’s about as pleasant as wearing wet socks. This bottle might just save me from myself.
Of course, the real test will be summer. When the sun’s out, I’m outside more, blissfully unaware that my body is slowly turning into a raisin. Dehydration and I have a long history, and my lab results have suffered for it. My doctor gently (read: sternly) reminds me that my kidneys don’t appreciate my forgetfulness. So, this summer, I plan to stick to the hydration schedule like my health depends on it—because, well, it does.
This whole thing got me thinking: where was this hydration discipline when I was younger? I never had the instinct to reach for water like my wife does. Not that I was drowning in soda or anything, but I definitely consumed more sugary drinks than necessary. Meanwhile, my wife has always been ahead of the health game. She avoids sugar like it’s plotting against her (which, in fairness, it kind of is—diabetes runs in her family). No soda, no alcohol, and a highly disciplined approach to carbs. She loves pasta and rice, but you’d never know it from how sparingly she eats them. Instead, she fills her plate with sweet potatoes, carrots, and the occasional apple in her salad. Apparently, those count as her sweet treats.
For me, adopting a healthier lifestyle isn’t so much a choice as it is a medical necessity. But I have to admit, having a wife who’s already on board with the whole “let’s not wreck our bodies” philosophy makes things a lot easier. She’s seen firsthand what happens when health is neglected, so she naturally supports my restrictions without making it a big deal. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: marrying her was my best decision.
This hydration experiment means I’ll be consuming a solid two liters of water daily. Right now, I’m still adjusting to this new reality where my bottle dictates my drinking habits. But with summer just around the corner, I have a feeling this little routine will become second nature. My kidneys, my doctor, and my wife will all be pleased. And hey, maybe I’ll finally stop feeling like a dried-up sponge by midday. One can dream.
From Level 5 to Thriving: My Kidney Recovery Journey
Written March 6, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
Ah, the quarterly nephrologist appointment—an event marked on my calendar like a mini health report card. Today was the day.
Once upon a time (and not in a fairytale way), my kidneys decided to stage a dramatic exit, dropping to level 5. For those unfamiliar with the kidney hierarchy, level 5 means you’re not just playing the waiting game—you’re officially in line for a transplant. That’s when my recovery story began.
While waiting for a kidney that might never come, the doctors handed me a to-do list. First up: peritoneal dialysis. That meant getting a catheter—a thin, flexible tube—implanted in my abdomen. My wife, ever the rockstar, took on the role of my personal dialysis technician, administering treatments four times a day. Since dialysis waits for no one, she had to put her job on hold. Meanwhile, I was also dealing with double vision thanks to a stroke, just to keep life extra interesting.
Next on the list? A complete dietary overhaul. Protein—limited. Dairy—cautioned. Even seemingly harmless greens—monitored. And salt? Not a big loss, since we’ve never been big fans anyway. But the adjustments weren’t easy. Every meal felt like a science experiment in portion control and kidney-friendly nutrition.
Then, one day, my doctor hit me with a plot twist: “Well, your kidneys are somehow recovering.” Just like that, dialysis was out, the catheter came off, and my wife could return to work. We stuck to the diet, kept up with regular check-ups, and—miraculously—my kidneys climbed back up to level 3. No more waiting lists. Just a whole lot of monitoring.
That’s why I wear a special watch that tracks everything from my blood pressure to my heart rate. I also keep an eye on my weight because, with my kidneys, even small fluctuations can mean trouble. And speaking of health habits—my wife had the brilliant idea of introducing exercise. At first, even walking with a walker felt like an uphill battle. But we stuck with it. Over the years, the walker turned into casual strolls, which turned into steady jogging. Now, I run. A lot. And somewhere along the way, I traded in excess fat for a leaner, healthier body.
Of course, I still have to be extra cautious. A simple flu or cold can throw my whole system into chaos. But for the most part, I’m in control.
As for today’s appointment? Smooth sailing. My nephrologist gave me the green light—no major concerns, no urgent changes. I did bring up a small worry about my blood pressure occasionally dipping too low, but since my averages are stable, it’s a ‘wait and see’ situation.
The only hiccup? The waiting room. Nearly an hour before I got called in. But hey, patience is a virtue, right? Plus, I got my quarterly visit checked off without any surprises.
Next appointment? Another Wednesday—aka my running day. No problem, I’ll adjust my schedule accordingly.
For now, I’ll keep doing what I’ve been doing. Because somehow, against the odds, it’s working.
Rain, Appointments, and the Tragedy of a Missed Run
Written March 5, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
Today, disappointment takes center stage. Nothing earth-shattering—no grand betrayals, no existential crises—just a simple, frustrating reality: I have a doctor’s appointment, and it’s trampling all over my running plans. Normally, I outmaneuver these scheduling dilemmas by booking appointments on non-running days, but this time, fate (or, more accurately, my doctor’s availability) had other plans. And so, my run is officially benched.
At first, I entertained the idea of running after the appointment, a valiant attempt at compromise. But then, I checked the weather: gray skies, a steady drizzle, the kind of rain that makes the world look like it’s mourning some cosmic injustice. It’s not a storm—there are no dramatic lightning bolts to justify staying indoors—but it’s just annoying enough to sap the joy out of a run. I could still go, but do I want to? Not really.
The irony of all this is that I never used to care about running. Actually, I despised it. My wife, on the other hand, has always been an outdoors enthusiast, the type who sees a forest trail and thinks, adventure! while I see it and think, mosquitoes. Left to my own devices, I would have happily remained a devoted indoor creature, perfectly content within four walls. But the more time I spent with her, the more I found myself dragged—reluctantly, at first—into nature. Running, however, was an entirely different beast.
I started running for her. After my stroke, she worried about my mobility, my brain function, and my ability to move with ease. She saw running as a way to keep me sharp and strong. And because I saw her as someone worth listening to, I ran. Not because I wanted to, not because I had any burning passion for the sport, but because making her happy was reason enough.
Of course, she saw through that instantly. “What happens if I’m not here?” she once asked, with a look that could cut through steel. “Would you just stop?” She argued that motivation needs to be internal and that relying on external forces makes for a fragile commitment. I nodded along, pretending to agree, but deep down, I wasn’t sure she was wrong.
Then, somewhere along the way, something shifted. It crept up on me, subtle and unexpected. Running became less about obligation and more about, well… me. I started to enjoy it—maybe even need it. And now, here I am, feeling genuinely frustrated about missing a run—not for my wife’s sake, but for my own. Somehow, that motivation she kept talking about had rooted itself deeper than I realized.
Now, I sit here, staring at the window, checking my weather app like it might miraculously change in my favor. It doesn’t. The sky remains gray, the drizzle continues, and my disappointment lingers. But really, what’s the point in sulking? I could try to make up the run tomorrow—though that might throw off my Friday schedule. I’ll decide when the time comes. One thing’s for sure: next time, I’ll fight harder for a non-running day appointment. But if I have to choose between my health and my run, the run will lose. Reluctantly.
Spring is Here… and So is Temperature Whiplash
Written March 3, 2025
reviewed 3/17
Hello Dear Readers,
Ah, spring in Nashville—the season where the weather behaves like a toddler throwing a tantrum. One moment, it’s flirting with summer warmth; the next, it’s diving headfirst back into winter. A 10-degree (or more) temperature swing within a single day? Completely normal. Convenient? Not in the slightest.
For most people, this just means layering up or peeling off a jacket when needed. But for me, post-brain stroke, my body has lost the ability to adjust to temperature shifts efficiently. Basically, my internal thermostat is broken. You know how your body shivers when it’s cold, constricting blood vessels to keep the heat in? Or how it ramps up metabolism to warm you up? Yeah, mine missed the memo. Instead, I just sit there, fully exposed to whatever the weather decides to throw at me, feeling every degree of change like some kind of human barometer.
After years of trial and (unfortunate) error, I’ve developed a system. Step one: check the weather forecast obsessively. Step two: have an outfit formula for each temperature range. If it’s 65°F or higher? Boom—shorts for running. Below that? Long sleeves, no exceptions. Since my body refuses to regulate heat properly, my only defense is meticulous planning.
Public buildings in summer? A whole different battle. Most people walk in from the heat and sigh in relief at the air conditioning. Me? I’m bracing for the deep freeze. The temperature difference between the scorching outdoors and the arctic indoor settings is brutal. Luckily, our house is the one place where I’m safe from the extremes. My wife always preferred keeping our indoor temperature closer to the natural climate, and after my stroke, she fine-tuned it even more to make things manageable for me.
This morning was another classic example of springtime mood swings. Woke up to temperatures just shy of freezing, and now it’s warmed up to a more tolerable range. But alas, still not 65°F, which means I’m reluctantly sticking to long sleeves for my run.
Honestly, this season keeps me on my toes. Some days start at a crisp 32°F and end pushing 60°F, which means I have to time my outdoor activities with military precision. Between my morning run and any outdoor chores, I’m constantly strategizing around the temperature spikes and drops.
On the bright side, my recovery routine worked wonders—yesterday’s sore legs feel refreshed, and I’m feeling pretty strong today. Now, if only spring could pick a temperature and stick with it, that would be great. But until then, I’ll be out there, battling the elements one run at a time.
Planking: Where Pride Goes to Die (and Come Back Stronger)
Written March 2, 2025
reviewed 3/15
Hello Dear Readers,
Ah, the sweet reward of a solid workout: muscle aches. Not exactly the kind of prize you’d frame on the wall, but a trophy nonetheless. Today, my legs are singing the well-earned ballad of yesterday’s hard-fought 10K run. Stretching is non-negotiable—unless I want to spend the day hobbling around like a wounded penguin. And trust me, that’s not the heroic look I’m going for.
While my running goals are shaping up better than expected, my planking? Well, that’s an entirely different beast. The new machine I got for planking scoffs at my previous efforts. It’s the Balrog of fitness equipment dragging me into the abyss of muscle fatigue. My body, still reeling from the betrayal, is filing official complaints. A couple of days ago, I smacked face-first into a wall of frustration. The plan had been simple: endure the pain for a week, and surely, I’d emerge victorious. But no. The abyss had other plans. No matter how much I gritted my teeth, I just couldn’t hold on long enough.
So, I made a painful decision—I cut my planking target time by a full minute. Oof.
Now, before you call it a defeat, hear me out. I’m all for pushing limits, but I also used to tell my university students that goals must be realistic. Time to practice what I preached. Setting the bar so high that I end up quitting entirely? That’s not resilience—that’s self-sabotage. A minute might not seem like much, but in the world of planking, it’s an eternity. Still, with this new machine, I have to be honest about what’s actually achievable.
Here’s how my planking sessions work: I use my smartphone on the machine to play a color ball chase game—an absolute gem of a distraction. The timer counts down, and I cling to life. The issue? My old target time, the one I used to master on my previous machine, just doesn’t translate here. But my stubborn streak refused to budge. I clung to that old number like Gollum to his precious, as if lowering it meant tarnishing my past victories. Eventually, my screaming muscles staged a full-scale rebellion, and I caved.
But here’s the plot twist: just like Gandalf, I may have fallen, but I’m coming back stronger. The new machine allows for incremental increases, so instead of mourning the lost minute, I’ve set my time to go up by one second per day. Small, steady victories. In time, I’ll reclaim my full endurance—without the unnecessary suffering. That’s the plan, at least.
At the end of the day, progress isn’t about stubbornly clinging to an arbitrary number. It’s about tracking what I can actually do and building from there. Seeing my endurance improve, even by the tiniest fraction, is far more motivating than repeatedly failing to hit an unrealistic goal.
So, here’s to adjusting, adapting, and rising like Gandalf the White—one second at a time.
The Grand Canyon Didn’t Break Me, So Neither Will My 10K Pace
Written March 1, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
Yesterday, I was on top of the world—or at least, on top of my running game. My 5K was a total success, smashing my target pace and dipping under 9 minutes per kilometer for the first time. Naturally, my mind started racing faster than my legs: If I keep this up, I’ll be setting a whole new goal for the year!
And then came today.
While my pace wasn’t quite as speedy, I still clocked my fastest 10K yet—just a few seconds per kilometer shy of my yearly goal. Not bad, right? But it got me thinking: so many factors affect my running pace. Distance, my body’s condition on the day, the weather—whether I’m battling a light breeze or running headfirst into a windstorm. Today, it was all about the distance.
There’s a world of difference between a 5K and a 10K. Some runners barely blink at the distinction; they lace up and conquer either without breaking stride. My wife told me about her old running buddies in Canada who were exactly like that. She, however, worked tirelessly to get there—only to realize that natural aptitude plays a role too.
But she also says consistency can take you far. Maybe not to the Olympics, but certainly further and faster than you’d expect. When she first mentioned it, I brushed it off. I wasn’t that serious about running. But over the years, as I watched my progress unfold, I started to appreciate the power of steady effort.
A prime example? The Grand Canyon.
A while back, we visited, and my wife—ever the hiking enthusiast—decided we’d walk everywhere. Skip the bus? Sure. Wander the steep, winding trails? Why not? By the time we finished, we had covered well over 10 miles, including a particularly hilly section of the canyon. And yet, I felt strong. Years ago, I would have needed to sit and rest every few minutes just to try to walk again. That day, though? No problem. My endurance had improved more than I’d ever realized.
So, yeah—consistency works.
That’s why I keep running. That’s why today’s run, even if not as fast as I’d hoped, was still an essential step forward. If I put in the effort this week, next week will be even better. And who knows? By the end of the year, I might just be chasing the 8-minute-per-kilometer mark.
One step, one run, one breakthrough at a time.