Category: Brian’s Journey

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Good Morning, Cardboard Chaos and Core Pain

Written May 10, 2025

reviewed 5/24

Hello Dear Readers,

Today I woke up with my body sending out what can only be described as an RSVP to the Pain Party. Most notably, my left shoulder/back area felt like it had gone a few rounds with a grizzly bear in its off-season. Every deep breath came with a charming reminder that, yes, I am no longer 22, and yes, running with sore muscles is about as fun as assembling IKEA furniture without instructions.

My grand plan was to knock out a casual 10k before heading to my sister’s shindig this afternoon. Reality, however, had other ideas. After dragging my slightly disgruntled limbs through a 5k, I waved the white flag. Enough was enough—this wasn’t the Olympics, and I wasn’t trying to impress Zeus.

When I whined—uh, consulted—with my wife about the mystery ache, she casually mentioned it might be from my recent plank marathons. Apparently, the floor space I’ve been using is less “yoga studio” and more “cardboard jungle.” Ever since we got back from Indiana, I’ve been buried in a sorting spree of my ancient Magic: The Gathering cards. Yes, the relics of my nerdy youth have staged a comeback, occupying approximately 47.3% of my study floor. (I measured emotionally.)

Now, my wife is not a fan of clutter. She approaches “stuff” with the same energy Marie Kondo would use to evict a raccoon from a linen closet. So, naturally, I’ve been trying to downsize the collection. Thankfully, a colleague of hers wants some of these dusty treasures. Apparently, old cardboard can still spark joy—or at least a trade.

The real issue? Sorting thousands of cards takes room. A lot of room. So I’ve been planking between booster packs and binder piles like some sort of core-strengthening archaeologist. My wife suggested—read: strongly recommended—that I plank in her room instead, where there’s actually space to extend my limbs without risking a landslide of mana.

Why didn’t I take her advice earlier? Well, I’m stubborn. Also, it felt like cheating on my routine. But considering my left side now feels like it’s been betrayed by my own ribcage, I’ve rethought my loyalties. She’s probably right. (She usually is. Don’t tell her I said that.)

I cleared a bit more space today, and voila—planking is no longer a game of human Tetris. The pain has subsided after some careful stretching and a moment of self-pity. Once I finish sorting the last of the cards—hopefully by mid-May—I’ll officially reclaim my floor and return to planking with dignity (and less groaning).

Lesson learned: Sometimes it’s better to abandon your makeshift gym and just listen to your wise, clutter-hating spouse. Especially if you enjoy breathing pain-free.

Until next time, stretch wisely and store your cardboard carefully.

—Your slightly sore, slightly wiser blogger

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When Your Muscles Say, “Not Today”

Written May 8, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Sometimes, my body and I are just not on the same team. Today’s first planking session felt like trying to wrestle a walrus—slippery, slow, and strangely humiliating. As I collapsed into a heap after the first set, I stared into the abyss (okay, the ceiling) and wondered how on earth I was supposed to do three more.

For the record, I don’t do anything extreme. I jog four times a week and do 10–20 minutes of muscle training every day—respectable, not Ironman material. Yet even this modest routine requires me to walk the tightrope of “just enough” thanks to my charmingly fussy kidneys.

Protein is a particular diva in my diet. I can eat it, but only in controlled, red-carpet amounts. If I push too hard without fueling properly, my muscles start cannibalizing themselves like a badly written survival movie. Not the vibe I’m going for. So, I’ve learned to listen to my body like it’s the lead singer and I’m just the backing vocals. Some days, it hits the high notes. Today, it croaked.

Naturally, this led to the Great Plank Debate of the Day: do I quit after one and scale the whole plan back? Or do I test the waters again later and see if my body’s just being dramatic?

Several hours and one curiosity-fueled check-in later… surprise! Round two felt significantly better. Maybe the lawn mowing earlier had worn me out more than I thought. Or maybe my muscles just needed a little nap and a motivational TED talk. Either way, I was back in the game.

Session three was… fine-ish. Not glorious, but also not tragic. I rewarded myself with a brief pause and some household chores—because nothing says “active rest” like folding towels. Then came session four, powered by the holy grail of motivation: ice cream. And somehow, I did it.

This whole planking saga got me thinking—maybe I need a proper rest day in my routine. I already rotate muscle groups to avoid overworking the same area, but perhaps even my meticulous planning needs a day off. After all, I’m not a machine. I’m a human with medical fine print.

I haven’t figured out the ideal plank duration yet. I know I can’t keep increasing it forever (unless I’m training for a Guinness World Record in dramatic floor-staring). One day, I’ll hit a ceiling. But for now, I’ve made peace with the idea that recovery is not weakness—it’s strategy.

Living with chronic conditions means your exercise plan sometimes needs to bend like a yoga master. So today’s lesson? When your body says “later,” sometimes it means “better.”

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When Weather Gaslights You: A Nashville Tale

Written May 4, 2025

reviewed 5/18

Hello Dear Readers,

Last night, Nashville—ever the drama queen—decided to flirt with winter again. One minute we’re sweating through 80°F days, the next, it’s 50°F and somehow feels like we’ve wandered into a scene from Frozen. Yes, 50 degrees doesn’t sound frigid on paper, but after a week of borderline tropical heat, it hits like a betrayal. I call it thermal whiplash.

We recently took a trip up to Indiana to visit my dad, which should’ve been a casual northern jaunt. Turns out, Indiana didn’t get the springtime memo. It’s just six hours north, but the temperature there lagged behind Nashville’s by a good 10 to 15 degrees. We arrived confidently underdressed and promptly humbled by the Midwest’s commitment to staying brisk. Apparently, even the weather in Indiana had trust issues.

My theory? That chilly Indiana air decided it liked us so much, it followed us home like a stray dog. And now here we are—hosting winter’s encore in May.

My wife, who possesses a fully functioning autonomic nervous system (unlike yours truly), took the temperature dip in stride. While I was layering like a human lasagna, she just mumbled something about needing sleeves and kept her 5:30 AM workout routine like clockwork. The woman is basically a solar-powered Terminator—nothing stops her if it’s scheduled.

Meanwhile, I work from home and consider “schedule” more of a suggestion than a rule. My day bends around three pillars: sleep, meals, and whether it’s cold enough to make me regret my life choices. As temperatures go haywire, I adapt like a lizard seeking sun—except slower and with more coffee.

I had just kicked off my summer schedule. You know, the one where I run before the pavement becomes a skillet? That plan lasted, oh, about two days before the weather pulled a reverse card. When your body can’t regulate temperature like it used to, you don’t negotiate—you pivot. And so, back to the winter plan we go: outside chores and running only when the thermometer behaves.

As for tomorrow, it looks like I’ll be suiting up in long sleeves again. Annoying? Yes. Unfair? Absolutely. I mean, I wasn’t consulted when they set the week’s forecast. But here I am, a humble peasant bowing to the weather gods.

Still, I got my bonus chores done today like a champ. And since I recently added piano practice into the mix (because why not make life more melodious?), I’ll be squeezing that in post-shower, post-workout—basically when I’m already exhausted but slightly cleaner.

Moral of the story? Nashville weather is like a cat: beautiful, unpredictable, and completely uninterested in your plans.

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My Left Hand and the Piano: A Love Story in Progress (with Supervision)

Written 05/03/2025

Hello Dear Readers,

For my birthday, my wife gave me a pair of gifts—small in size, but mighty in purpose. One was a clever little guide that sits atop the piano keys and tells me which note is which (finally, no more pretending middle C is wherever my finger happens to land). The other? A beginner’s piano book for adults—because apparently, it’s never too late to become a clumsy Beethoven.

Naturally, this led me to the next question: Where on earth do I squeeze piano practice into my already jam-packed schedule of surviving, recovering, and occasionally pretending I don’t need a nap?

Let’s rewind a bit. Back in my younger days, I was a lightning-fast typist. A true child of the digital age, I grew up playing text-based games online, typing as if my life depended on it—probably because it did, at least if I wanted to defeat goblins in under 0.3 seconds. But then came the stroke. And just like that, my typing—and pretty much every other form of movement—hit the reset button.

My right side made a comeback worthy of a sports movie montage. My left side? Eh… not so much. It remained clumsy, uncooperative, and frankly, a little rebellious. Since walking was the first priority, I focused on my legs. Years of effort later, I can now run 10K like someone with a vendetta against gravity. But the hand? Still marching to its own awkward beat.

So I turned to my wife—who’s a piano player and my resident hand-coordination consultant—and asked for a piano book. She lit up like a major chord. I had tried piano before, somewhere around 2018 or 2019, but couldn’t keep it up. Mobility had to come first, and my left hand was still on sabbatical.

Now, with the book in hand (well, mostly right hand), I’m ready to try again. It’s a fresh start. A new project. And we all know the first rule of New Projects Club: Don’t kid yourself. Saying “I’ll just practice whenever I have time” is code for “I’ll definitely forget, then panic, then pretend I never planned this at all.” So I’ve decided piano will follow my shower—clean body, clean mind, slightly damp enthusiasm.

My wife advised me not to launch into a full 30-minute Beethoven marathon right away. “Start small,” she said. “Five to ten minutes. Don’t burn out your fingers or your will to live.” Wise words. The goal is consistency, not concertos.

She also gave me The Talk about posture and form. “No slamming the keys,” she warned. “It’s not a typewriter or a drum.” Apparently, hitting a piano key too hard can cause unwanted vibrations in the other keys—kind of like when one person sneezes in a quiet room and everyone else flinches. She had to unlearn her own bad habits, and she’d really prefer I not repeat them.

So here we are: me, a slightly-used left hand, a piano, and a patient wife. I’m excited. Nervous. Slightly tone-deaf. But excited. Let’s see where this new adventure takes me—hopefully somewhere between “Chopsticks” and Chopin.

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Planking Debt and Dental Drama: A Cautionary (Core) Tale

Written April 30, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday’s schedule came with extra side quests—including an unexpected journey into the land of Root Canal—which left me with a zero on the plank scoreboard. Not a single session. Nada. Zilch.

Now, before the Fitness Police come knocking, let me plead my case. First, I was out of the house for hours because a dentist decided to drill into my soul (well, technically my tooth, but same vibes). Second, I was warned that once the anesthesia wore off, my jaw would throb in sync with my heartbeat like an EDM concert. So anything that might elevate my heart rate—say, planking—was officially off the table. Because nothing says “bad idea” quite like throbbing pain in your skull while pretending to be a human ironing board.

So yes, I had a good excuse. But I also know: excuses don’t cancel consequences. They just soften the guilt.

Today, however, was redemption day. I rolled out my mat and got to work, attempting to chip away at the planking debt like a fiscally responsible core warrior. I’ll try to sneak in more sets before the day ends, because… just because. (Discipline is mysterious like that.)

My wife once told me that missing a day of piano practice set her back a whole week. So, during her serious piano era, she would tap those keys every chance she got—like a caffeinated Mozart. But muscles aren’t like piano scales. You can’t binge your way back to strength. Hit the same muscles too soon, and you’re more likely to get a complaint letter from your own body.

Still, skipping a workout unsettles me—way more than it logically should. After my stroke, when I couldn’t move at all, I made a quiet promise to myself: if I ever got mobility back, I’d use it. Every skipped session feels like I’m letting that promise fade a little.

I’ve made peace with the past. I carry it with me—not as baggage, but as a reminder. My wife has this old car that’s nearly 20 years old. She maintains it like it’s a classic Ferrari. Not because it’s fancy, but because it’s hers. She’s grateful it still runs. I guess I treat my body the same way. It may not be shiny, but it still moves, still works, still gets me through the day—and for that, I’m deeply grateful.

I’ve never been a super athlete. I don’t sprint past people or crush personal bests on leaderboards. But I show up. I work. I move.

As of now, I’ve done two planks. The goal is to hit five today—six if I’m feeling spicy. That way, I’ll be one session closer to balancing my plank budget. And tomorrow? I’ll settle the score.

Because the only thing worse than sore abs… is regret.

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Root Canals, Cupcakes, and Calendar Fails: A Tuesday Tale

Written April 29, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today’s thrill? A date with dental destiny—aka, a root canal. Yes, nothing says “living on the edge” quite like your body deciding, without warning or permission, to eat your own tooth.

It all began during an innocent routine cleaning, when the x-rays revealed that one tooth had gone rogue. The official term? Resorption. My understanding? The tooth was staging a quiet rebellion and needed to be stopped before it descended into full molar mutiny.

Enter: Operation Root Canal + Crown Replacement. A heroic two-part intervention to rescue the situation. Unfortunately, my memory didn’t get the memo.

Thanks to post-trip brain fog, I merrily began my Tuesday—running errands, mowing the lawn, blissfully unaware I was supposed to be horizontal in a dentist’s chair. That illusion ended with a phone call: “Hi, are you on your way?”

Cue the wallet grab, a half-jog-half-panic-sprint to the clinic, and a fashionably late arrival, 15 minutes behind schedule. The drama begins.

The procedure itself wasn’t painful—modern dentistry is surprisingly gentle. Even the needle was considerate enough to come with a numbing warm-up act. Mostly, it was just an awkward hour of impersonating a yawning statue while a dental team played a symphony inside my mouth with tiny instruments.

Post-procedure, I emerged a bit disoriented but victorious. Naturally, I rewarded myself in the most responsible adult way possible: cupcakes. (Yes, plural. Stress management is real.)

Despite the pre-procedure anxiety and the frantic dash to the dentist, the worst part was honestly the guilt of forgetting the appointment—thank you, Google Calendar, for not saving me this time. But the tooth drama was caught early, and that’s something to chew on (gently, of course).

Back home, I resumed mowing, showered like a civilized human, and whipped up dinner. As for the cupcakes, I did offer one to my wife. She declined. So I ate both. No regrets. They were spectacular. Her loss. My gain—literally, considering I’ve been losing weight unintentionally. Cupcake therapy: highly recommended.

April has been… eventful. Between the Indiana trip and spontaneous dental sabotage, it’s been a wild ride. But May is knocking, and so is my birthday, hopefully with fewer drills and more frosting.

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Wolves, War, and a Whiff of the Divine: A Weekend in Tippecanoe Territory

Written April 28, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

My wife and I just got back from our trip to visit my father—successfully, I might add, which is more than I can say for the general state of our lawn. But forget the grass—this trip’s highlight was a double feature of historical drama and lupine charm: the Battle of Tippecanoe site and Wolf Park, both nestled in the flat but surprisingly rich plains of Indiana.

Now here’s the kicker: I spent my entire high school career in West Lafayette, lingered after college, and even circled back post-grad. Yet I had never visited either attraction. Apparently, I had to move away and return as a tourist to see what was in my own backyard. Classic.

Wolf Park was our first stop, and I confess, I was initially skeptical. The wolves live in a vast, protected enclosure—with rivers (yes, plural), open fields, and enough terrain to host a decent reenactment of The Revenant. From the visitor’s area, though, you can’t see much. And Indiana, true to form, doesn’t offer any dramatic peaks for convenient wolf-spotting.

Thankfully, my worries were as unfounded as a Bigfoot sighting.

After admiring some curious red and grey foxes lounging in smaller enclosures like furry aristocrats, we spotted our first wolf. He had just finished a casual swim across one of the rivers (because apparently, that’s his cardio routine) and decided to stretch out in the sun like a seasoned retiree in Florida. My wife lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

Then came Timber—a silver-white vision of a wolf with a name straight out of a wilderness novel. My wife stared in awe and launched into a nostalgic monologue about a book she adored as a child by Ernest Thompson Seton. In most stories, wolves are the villains—slinking in shadows, blowing down houses—but this book had made her see them differently: noble, misunderstood, and incredibly majestic.

We got lucky—two wolves ventured close to the fence and, just when we thought it couldn’t get better, one of them howled. Right there. Close enough to give you goosebumps. I caught it on video, naturally, because if a wolf howls in a park and no one posts it online, did it even happen?

Since then, my wife has been drawing wolves a lot. Wolves lounging. Wolves howling. Wolves that could probably beat us at chess if they had thumbs. She was enchanted. And honestly? So was I.

These weren’t wild wolves, sure—but that didn’t diminish the experience. There’s something ancient about being near them, something that brushes up against the mythic. My wife often mentions how in Japanese tradition, nature isn’t just nature—it’s sacred. You tread lightly because you never know when you’re walking through a god’s living room. Every time she says that, I flash to Greco-Roman myths. Turns out, the gods of Olympus and the spirits of Shinto might have been sharing notes.

And maybe that’s the heart of it. Strip away the noise—the phones, the emails, the doomscrolling—and you’re left with something quiet, wild, and oddly familiar.It was a good trip. No, scratch that—it was a soulful trip. And I’m already wondering when we can go back.

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Running, Muscles, and the Ice Cream Prescription

Written April 23, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, I sprang out of bed like a slightly confused cat and went for a run, despite the air feeling more like “early spring rebellion” than “early summer vibes.” Brisk? Yes. Regret it? Not entirely. Especially not after discovering something unexpected: I now weigh less than my goal weight.

Cue dramatic gasp.

Now, before you roll your eyes or hurl a dumbbell in my general direction, hear me out. This is not a humblebrag. In fact, it’s more of a humble-uh-oh. My wife, ever supportive but never shy, is predictably envious — but the truth is, keeping my weight up is a legitimate struggle. Yes, folks, we exist: the protein-challenged calorie chasers.

Thanks to a complicated relationship between me and my kidneys (we’re on speaking terms, but barely), I’m limited to just 36 grams of protein a day. That’s not even enough to fuel a toddler’s wrestling match. Meanwhile, my body, ever the drama queen, starts eating muscle like it’s the appetizer at an all-you-can-burn buffet.

And summer? Oh, summer. With its relentless lawn care, endless sweating, and bonus rounds of physical exertion, it doesn’t help the situation. Last year, when my weight took a nosedive, I resorted to a daring solution: ice cream. High in fat, gloriously low in protein, and — most importantly — medically justifiable.

Research also led me to puff pastry (yes, that kind). Turns out, those buttery, flaky bites of heaven are practically prescribed when you’re me. I bake mini versions now and snack on a few a day like it’s a gourmet intervention.

My wife, nutrition detective that she is, thinks my body is demanding more calories because of the muscle mass I’ve (very slowly) built over the years. Apparently, when you have muscles, they actually do things — like increase metabolism. Who knew? Even my health-tracking apps are applauding my efforts, telling me I’m biologically younger than I am. Take that, gravity.

But here’s the catch: when your kidneys are fussy, and your menu is more “delicate negotiation” than “buffet line,” you can’t just refuel with whatever looks healthy. Bananas? Problematic. Broccoli? Suspicious. Chicken breast? Enemy territory. Whole grains? A risky gamble.

On the bright side, I don’t have diabetes — which, as the hospital reminded me, often strolls hand-in-hand with kidney disease and heart issues after a brain stroke. So yes, carbs and I are still dating.

Neither my wife nor I indulge in salty snacks, greasy meals, or carb-laden fiestas. And yet, despite our best efforts at adulting responsibly, doctors never figured out why I developed high blood pressure and kidney problems. Cancer was ruled out after a battery of tests. The final verdict? Likely a phenotype mutation. Which sounds either like a Marvel backstory or a Scrabble power move.

Anyway, bottom line: it’s time for more ice cream. I’ll make sure it lands on our next grocery list, filed under “essentials,” right between “milk” and “life’s too short.”

Until next time — may your pastries be puffy, and your kidneys compliant.

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Rain, Hills, and High Hopes: A (Postponed) Summer Running Kickoff

Written April 21, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Last night, I was ready. I laid out my running clothes like a ritual sacrifice to the gods of summer fitness. My pre-run pastry bites were perfectly staged (because who runs on an empty stomach unless they’re being chased?). Today was supposed to be the glorious start of my summer running schedule.

Then morning happened.

I woke to the melodic sound of rain hammering the roof like it had a personal vendetta, and a temperature drop that made me question if we’d time-traveled back to March. So much for best-laid plans—and best-laid leggings.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Today is my designated running day. But Mother Nature seems to be doing interval training with thunderclouds. Ever since moving to a place where summer mornings feel like a furnace on “broil” by 9 a.m., I’ve learned to schedule anything that requires outdoor movement to happen at sunrise—just like my wife does with her daily cardio. It’s Nashville. Sometimes it hits 100°F (38°C), and that’s not a typo—that’s a sauna with streetlights.

But let’s pivot to my other nemesis: lawn mowing. Yes, it’s still chilly, and yes, the grass doesn’t care. It just keeps growing like it’s in a competition with the weeds. Now, mowing may sound simple, but when your lawn resembles a ski slope and your mower is a plug-in sidekick, it becomes a workout worthy of its own medal. Add in my lovely post-stroke body’s struggle to regulate temperature, and let’s just say timing is everything. I try to mow when it’s neither “frozen fingers” cold nor “eggs-cook-on-the-sidewalk” hot.

My wife, by the way, used to tackle that steep hill with a manual push mower. No electricity. No mercy. She’d split the task across the week like it was a strategic battle plan. Eventually, logic (and probably her arms) persuaded her to upgrade to an electric push mower. Still, even with that upgrade, the hill doesn’t quit. I now spend around 6–7 hours per week mowing, but don’t worry—I break it into shifts. I’m not that much of a lawn martyr.

Back to today: it’s mid-April, and yet the air still has that “early March in denial” vibe. Just a few weeks ago we were flirting with 85°F, and now I’m wrapped in fleece debating cardio logistics. The rain’s left the yard squishy, the kind of squishy that makes mowing feel like dragging a sled through pudding.

So here I am, toggling between my weather app and the breakfast table, waiting for a possible break in the rain. Will I run today? Maybe. The app promises a one-hour window, but I don’t trust it. It’s like a flaky friend who always shows up late… if at all. So yes—chilly rain, mushy grass, and my stubborn thermoregulation convinced me to do the only reasonable thing: I had breakfast, postponed everything, and officially declared tomorrow the new start of my summer schedule. Because sometimes, the best cardio move is a strategic retreat.

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Adjusting Life’s Schedule One Water Bottle at a Time

Written April 20, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

Today’s grand mission? Mastering the delicate art of pre-trip planning. My wife and I are heading out next weekend to visit my father, and while it’s not a cross-continental journey, it does require some finesse to adjust our usual routines. Because let’s face it—life doesn’t hit pause just because we want to hit the road.

First hurdle: the water delivery. It dawned on us a few days ago (with a dramatic gasp, I might add) that the giant jugs of water we rely on to survive modern life are due to arrive on Friday… exactly when we’ll be somewhere between “Did we forget the charger?” and “How many snacks is too many?” So we’ve decided to leave our empty bottles out and hope the new ones are dutifully dropped off and patiently wait for us on the porch. Risky? Slightly. But what’s life without a little suspense?

My wife, not one to let a logistical slip go without commentary, pointed out that we could’ve just scheduled an extra delivery last time. She’s vowed to keep closer tabs on the calendar next round. I’ve learned that when she says “next time,” it means she’s got a spreadsheet in the works already.

Now let’s talk about running—which, for once, I will not be doing. Since we’re leaving early Friday, there’s really no room to squeeze in a jog unless I magically become the kind of person who wakes up at 4 a.m. (Spoiler: I’m not.) My wife, ever the cardio queen, plans to get her miles in at 5:30 a.m. before we hit the road. Me? I’ll skip Friday and Saturday and deal with the existential guilt later.

Sure, I could bring my gear and run at my dad’s place, but that would mean more packing, less relaxing, and a whole lot of “Where do I go without getting lost or chased by geese?” I’ll probably consult my wife for a second opinion, but I suspect she’ll say something practical, like “Just enjoy the visit.”

As if water and workouts weren’t enough, my kombucha schedule is also feeling the ripple effects. I normally bottle on Friday nights, but unless the SCOBY wants to join us on the road (which, frankly, I’m not emotionally prepared for), that plan’s out. Thankfully, we’re close to the off-week in my brewing cycle, and since we won’t be home to drink it anyway, skipping this round feels like the least dramatic choice I’ve made all week.

With our routines more or less intact and the major chaos accounted for, it looks like this trip won’t throw our entire system off balance. A few tweaks here and there, and we’re good. Of course, I still have that sneaky suspicion I’m forgetting something… but isn’t that part of the pre-trip charm?