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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:

  1. The United States
  2. Liberia
  3. 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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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The Weekend Latte Ritual: A Brewed Philosophy

Written February 2, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Ah, the weekend—those glorious two days where time slows just enough to remind us that life isn’t only about deadlines and checklists. My wife and I have stumbled upon a new weekend tradition, one that involves the alchemy of caffeine and a dash of self-appreciation.

It all started with a simple upgrade: coffee. Not just any coffee, but the kind that demands a moment of respect before the first sip—the kind that makes you pause and acknowledge, Yes, I deserve this. We don’t go to fancy cafés or wait in long lines for baristas to scribble our names incorrectly on cups. No, we craft our own indulgence right at home.

Then Christmas came along, and with it, my sister’s perfectly chosen gift: a milk frother and flavored syrups. This was a game-changer. Suddenly, Sunday became latte day. Not just any latte, but the latte, handcrafted with a level of precision that would make a chemist proud.

Now, my wife is a purist when it comes to coffee—black, untainted, unsweetened. But once a week, she lets me transform her cup into something velvety and rich. The catch? The syrup. Following the package instructions led to a disaster of sugar overload. So, after a few misfires (and my wife’s polite but unimpressed expressions), I cracked the code: just enough syrup to balance indulgence without betrayal. A sweet spot, if you will.

And somehow, this tiny ritual makes me reflect—not just on coffee ratios but on life itself. Every Sunday latte is a quiet nod to the week we’ve survived, the goals we’ve chased, and the fact that we’re still here, sipping and smiling.

Yesterday, I completed my 10K run. Did I hit my target pace? Not quite. Did I still run 10K? Absolutely. And that counts for something.

So, we sip our lattes, acknowledging the week’s efforts, big or small. It’s a self-made celebration, a pat on the back in a ceramic cup. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that appreciating yourself isn’t just nice—it’s necessary.

And what better way to do it than with a perfectly brewed latte?

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A Walk to the Doctor’s Office (and a Well-Earned Cupcake)

Written February 4, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

It’s that time of year again—my annual checkup with my general practitioner. Not my nephrologist this time, just the standard “let’s make sure nothing unexpected is brewing” kind of visit. Although, if I’m being honest, “annual” checkups feel almost quaint in my world. Thanks to my kidneys, I’m on a much more frequent schedule.

When we bought this house, my wife and I made sure we had all the essentials within walking distance—our dentist, doctor, and a few favorite spots for coffee. It makes life easier, and today, it means my appointment is just a short stroll away. The weather isn’t as pleasant as yesterday, but it’s decent enough. Besides, I won’t be outside long, so why complain?

There’s something oddly comforting about these little hubs of life—places where errands mix seamlessly with leisure. My doctor’s office is nestled in a small mall, surrounded by restaurants, coffee shops, and even a cupcake store. My wife isn’t big on cupcakes, but I certainly am. And today, I just might reward myself with one.

Before my brain stroke, I never imagined I’d be visiting doctors so regularly. Back then, checkups felt optional—something you did when absolutely necessary, not something you scheduled like clockwork. Now? Every few months, I’m back in an exam room, getting my blood pressure, heart rate, and kidney function scrutinized. It’s not my favorite pastime, but I’ve learned to accept it. There’s no use questioning how important these visits are. They keep me informed, and more importantly, they keep me alive.

A lot of it comes down to choices—small, daily decisions that keep my health in balance. My wife and I eat in a way that supports my kidneys: more fresh produce, fewer processed foods, and carefully measured protein. I can’t just mindlessly grab a steak or overindulge in anything salty. Even something as minor as a cold or a slight miscalculation in my water intake can send my numbers in the wrong direction. It’s a delicate system, and I have to respect it.

That’s why I no longer mind these doctor’s visits like I used to. They aren’t just about checking boxes; they’re about staying ahead of problems before they spiral. I listen to my doctors, take their advice seriously, and adjust accordingly. It’s a partnership, not a battle.

Still, a little reward never hurts. After my checkup, I plan to take a detour to the cupcake shop nearby—nothing excessive, just a small indulgence to mark another successful visit. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that balance is everything. Taking care of my health is non-negotiable, but finding joy in the little things? That’s just as important.

So, here’s to another routine checkup, another step in the right direction, and maybe—just maybe—a well-earned cupcake at the end of it all.

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How I Stay Motivated to Run and Plank

Written 02/01/2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, I decided to reward myself with an extra 30 minutes in bed. Not out of laziness—no, this was a well-earned bonus round of rest. When I finally stretched awake, my body had plenty to say about yesterday’s workout. My abs, shoulders, and arms all ached in that satisfying, you did something tough kind of way. The culprit? Three solid planking sessions.

Now, if you had asked me a few weeks ago whether I’d voluntarily hold a plank multiple times a day, I would have laughed and changed the subject. But here I am, surprising even myself. I’ve already checked off one session this morning, but I’m gunning for at least two. My ultimate goal is to conquer the elusive three-minute plank, and until I get there, consistency is the name of the game.

Speaking of consistency, let’s talk about the tricky beast that is exercise. Staying committed to a fitness routine isn’t always fun. Some days, I feel unstoppable; other days, my legs protest even the thought of movement. The secret, I’ve found, is to make exercise less of a chore and more of a challenge. Instead of dragging myself through a routine, I turn it into a game.

And this month? The game just got a fresh update. My running app has rolled out new monthly challenges, and I am all in. I used to be a gamer, so this setup feels oddly familiar—like accepting quests in an RPG. But instead of slaying dragons or looting treasure, I’m chasing down miles and racking up achievements.

First up on today’s list: a 10K run. Not only will that check off one of my monthly challenges, but it will also give me a head start on the others. The app typically hands me three major quests each month—a single 10K run, a 50K total distance challenge, and a two-month 150K challenge. It’s like leveling up my real-world endurance, one run at a time. As long as I stick to my own running expectations, I tend to complete them all.

For tracking, I use the ASICS Runkeeper app. The free version has everything I need, though the premium upgrade unlocks extra features. I haven’t felt the urge to splurge on it yet—partly because my wife and I already use the free version to keep tabs on each other’s progress. Having a workout partner, even virtually, makes a big difference. Some days, she’s the one pushing ahead, which inspires me to lace up and hit the pavement. On other days, it’s me leading the charge. Either way, it keeps us both accountable.

So, as I sit here sipping my coffee, psyching myself up for that 10K, I remind myself: fitness isn’t about punishing your body—it’s about challenging it. And the best way to stay motivated? Make it fun, set goals, and turn it into a quest worth pursuing.

Now, it’s time to gear up and earn today’s bragging rights.

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Running, Weather, and the Fine Art of Not Wrecking My Kidneys

Written January 30, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday’s run? Surprisingly pleasant. The weather was in that sweet spot—chilly enough to make standing around feel like a questionable life choice but with just enough sun to turn things comfortable once I got moving. It’s that perfect running paradox: too cold to stand still, too warm to bundle up. And best of all? I managed to beat my target pace for the first 5K again, which means I’m still holding onto my ever-diminishing speed goals. A small but satisfying victory.

Now, let’s talk about my body’s complicated relationship with temperature. Ever since my brain stroke, my autonomic nervous system has been a bit of a diva—it no longer regulates heat or cold properly. If the weather swings too far in either direction, my endurance takes a nosedive. Some runners struggle with pacing, others with motivation. I struggle with the fundamental issue of my body, deciding it simply does not approve of temperature extremes. It’s like a toddler refusing to eat anything but macaroni and cheese.

Because of this, I’ve been forced to become a part runner and part-amateur meteorologist. I check the forecast religiously, sometimes more than I check my emails. My weather app claims it can predict the weather up to 10 days in advance, though let’s be honest—it’s basically fortune-telling after a week. Still, it gives me a decent heads-up on what’s coming. And when you have a body that treats temperature changes like a personal betrayal, planning ahead is crucial.

Take tomorrow, for example. Warmer weather is on the way, which means hydration is about to become my new best friend. That also means my pace might start to slow because staying hydrated and pushing for speed don’t always go hand in hand. And here’s where things get tricky. I love progress. I love seeing the numbers on my running app improve. But I also love having functioning kidneys, and unfortunately, one comes at the expense of the other.

Dehydration is bad for anyone, but for me, it’s particularly risky. My kidneys already function at less than full capacity, so letting them get parched isn’t just a bad idea—it’s a potentially dangerous one. Pushing my limits is one thing; actively sabotaging my health is another.

So, if I have to choose between breaking a personal record and keeping my body happy, I’ll choose my health every time. Okay, maybe not happily, but let’s call it a mature decision. It’s the kind of choice I’ll have to keep reminding myself of mid-run, especially when the competitive part of my brain whispers, just a little faster, you can still beat it.

But in the end, running is about longevity, not just speed. And if slowing down a little means I get to keep running for years to come? That’s a trade I’m willing to make even if my inner speed demon protests the entire way.

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A Funny Thing About Annual Check-Ups

Written January 29, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Every January, like clockwork, I get a little nudge from my doctor’s office: It’s time to schedule your annual physical! It’s a routine as predictable as New Year’s resolutions that don’t make it past February. Except this year, something was off. By mid-January, my inbox remained suspiciously silent. There was no automated reminder, no gentle push to book an appointment.

Curious (and a little paranoid), I logged into my patient portal, hoping to schedule it myself. Turns out, I was a bit premature. Last year’s appointment was on January 30th, so technically, I wasn’t due just yet. Patience, as they say, is a virtue—but when it comes to health, I’d rather be early than late.

Lessons From a Stroke: Why I No Longer Play Chicken With My Health

Before my brain stroke, I wasn’t exactly best friends with the medical world. Doctors were for emergencies, right? Annual check-ups were those things people did when they had extra time. And I, in my infinite wisdom, thought I had plenty of it.

Then came the stroke. And the swollen feet from gout. And the realization that, actually, time isn’t something to take for granted. Now, I’m a changed man—or at least a much more medically responsible one. I go for my annual physical without fail, and I see my nephrologist every few months like it’s a standing coffee date (minus the coffee because caffeine is another thing I have to watch).

The Irony of Post-Stroke Health

Here’s the kicker: I’m probably the healthiest I’ve ever been. Who knew a life-altering medical event could be the best personal trainer?

Since my stroke, I’ve taken up running and walking—activities I once considered optional but now see as non-negotiable. My endurance has skyrocketed. My diet? Let’s just say I’ve become intimately familiar with ingredient labels. Salt, protein, phosphate, and potassium are all on a tight leash. My wife, determined to make sure I don’t live a life of bland meals, has turned our kitchen into a spice lab, crafting homemade blends that put store-bought seasonings to shame.

Even my drinking habits have changed. I still enjoy a glass of something now and then, but just one. Gone are the days of carefree refills. And sleep? I treat it with the same discipline as a tax deadline—strict and non-negotiable. Bedtime at 9:30 PM, wake up at 7 AM, no exceptions.

Health: A Long Game, Not a Sprint

The truth is, I don’t feel sick. There’s nothing urgent making me rush to the doctor. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that health isn’t just about reacting to problems—it’s about preventing them. Regular check-ups while feeling good help establish a baseline. Without that, how do you even know what’s “normal” for you?

So, I fully expect that tomorrow, my doctor’s office will send that long-overdue reminder email as if on cue. And this time, I’ll be ready.