Category: Brian’s Journey

Posted on

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.

Posted on

Spring Fever (with a Side of Pastry Bites)

Written April 14, 2025

reviewed 4/19

Hello, Dear Readers,

At long last, Nashville is flirting with spring. The weather forecast this week suggests we might finally be wrapping up the “breakfast season”—you know, the time when it’s still cool enough in the morning to sit down, sip something warm, and think about running. But let’s be honest: in this city, spring is always on a short-term lease. Summer’s probably waiting in the parking lot, engine running.

This morning, the air was balmy enough for shorts. A small victory. My wife, however, was not impressed—she stepped outside and immediately declared war on the pollen and pollution. “My eyes are burning,” she said. Welcome to Nashville in bloom: pretty, but armed with allergens.

The tricky part of days like this is timing. Wait too long, and the friendly warmth becomes a sweaty sauna. So I shifted my schedule accordingly. Efficiency is the name of the game in spring training—beat the heat or melt into the pavement.

My wife seems much perkier lately, probably because daylight finally aligns with her post-run cool-down. Meanwhile, I’m wrestling with the humidity—it clings like an overly enthusiastic hug. She mentioned a thunderstorm warning, but it must’ve RSVP’d somewhere else. Not a drop here.

I’ve been toying with the idea of adjusting my routine even earlier than usual. Nashville summers don’t play nice, so yard work and runs will need to be knocked out before the asphalt starts steaming. I’ve also made changes to my exercise schedule this season: instead of doing everything everywhere all at once, I now do one type of exercise per day. A civilized arrangement, if I may say so.

Despite the chaos of weather shifts and yard chores, I managed all 10 pullups in a single set today. Small triumphs deserve applause. But as the forecast continues to play mood-ring roulette, I’ll take a look at the 10-day outlook this weekend to finalize my tactical plan for next week—both for runs and for mowing.

Now, there is one flaw in this early-bird strategy: hunger. I need something in the tank before my run, and a protein shake would be perfect—if I didn’t have kidney restrictions. Alas, with protein limits breathing down my neck, I have to get creative.

Processed snacks? Out. Most protein bars? Also out. Even “healthy” foods are landmines with my salt, potassium, and phosphate restrictions. So what’s left? My trusty homemade pastry bites. They’re small, satisfying, and friendly to my dietary constraints. I slather them with my wife’s homemade jam—peach season is coming, and she’s gearing up for a full-blown jam session.

So yes, while others may carb-load with smoothies and power bars, I’ve got dainty pastry bites and fruit preserves—charming, old-school, and delicious.

And now, the trail (or sidewalk) calls. It’s warm, the sky’s clear, and I can already hear my running shoes whispering, “Let’s go.”

Posted on

One Extra Hour: How Sleep Saved My Planks (and My Sanity)

Written April 12, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Lately, I’ve been dragging myself around like a phone on 3% battery—blinking, buzzing, and refusing to load. Yard work has turned into a full-contact sport around here, and my body clearly did not get the memo that spring chores were starting. Muscles I forgot existed have filed complaints. Loud ones.

This seasonal fatigue isn’t new—it sneaks in every year like an uninvited guest bearing mulch and weed whackers. The warmer weather only makes matters worse. Instead of rising with the sunshine like a cheerful daisy, I’ve been negotiating with my pillow for just five more minutes… which somehow turns into forty-five.

Enough was enough.

I finally gave in to the not-so-subtle hints from my exhausted limbs and called it a night early. I managed to go to bed an entire hour ahead of schedule. My wife nearly dropped her book in surprise. You see, she’s usually the early-to-bed, early-to-rise type, squeezing in a workout, meditation, and probably an entire novel before I’ve finished brushing my teeth. She tackles her work day before it even starts. It’s her way of keeping the dragons of procrastination at bay. Respect.

As for me? That precious hour of extra sleep worked magic. I woke up without groaning. No zombie shuffle. No groggy inner monologue about caffeine. Just… energy. Actual energy. I felt like a phone fresh off the charger—100% and glowing green.

Now, let’s talk planks. My ongoing battle with chronic kidney disease means I have to tiptoe around protein intake like it’s a sleeping lion. Building muscle becomes a delicate dance: push too hard, and my body rebels. Add yard work to the mix, and suddenly I’m struggling to complete my daily planking sessions, barely hanging on by the third round—let alone the fourth.

But today? Today was different.

With that extra hour under my belt, I felt like my old self again—well, at least like a version of myself who doesn’t curse at the yoga mat. My planks were smoother, my muscles less whiny, and if I manage to pull off all four sessions today, I’ll finally increase my duration tomorrow… by one mighty second.

Because in this house, we celebrate progress in seconds. And sleep, apparently, is the unsung hero of all fitness gains.

Posted on

When Spring Forgets It’s Spring (and My Lawn Forgets Its Manners)

Written 04/08/2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

Ah, Nashville. The only place where you can sip iced tea on the porch one day and contemplate lighting the fireplace the next. This week has been a bit of a rollercoaster—weather-wise, that is. One moment we were basking in spring-like sunshine, and the next, the temperature nosedived, flirting with frostbite. On the bright side, no tornado warnings or thunderous chaos today—just a brisk chill and a confused lawn behaving like it’s late May.

Thanks to a cocktail of warm days and buckets of rain, our grass—and its less welcome cousin, the weeds—had a growth spurt. They clearly got the wrong seasonal memo. I swear, our yard is acting like it’s auditioning for The Secret Garden reboot.

Meanwhile, the birds have declared our backyard the brunch spot of the season. Robins, sparrows, maybe a few freeloading grackles—all pecking around like they’re foraging for truffles. They might be after the worms surfacing from the soggy ground or the random berries our backyard insists on producing. Whatever it is, the backyards become a feathered frenzy.

As for me, I had one noble mission today: taming the jungle. Lawn-mowing season has officially begun.

Normally, I wait until the day warms up a bit before stepping outside—especially on mornings that feel more like winter’s encore than spring’s overture. But today, I got an early start. The backlog from last week’s storms and rain had left our lawn looking more like a meadow, and I needed to catch up.

And catch up I did—until both of our large mower batteries tapped out. I was surprised by how much ground I covered and equally surprised by how much still remained. I had grand ambitions, but alas, when the batteries say they’re done, it’s nature’s way of saying, “Time for a break.”

Not too long ago, mowing this much would have wiped me out for the day. Back then, our mower was… let’s call it “modest.” My wife and I would tag-team the yard whenever time (and energy) allowed. Then came the upgrade: five years ago, we invested in a proper mower—a real game-changer. Thanks to that and my regular workouts, I now have the stamina to mow for hours without turning into a puddle of regret.

Fun fact: my wife used to mow nearly an acre of land back in Canada. With a push mower. Not electric. Not gas-powered. Just pure muscle. Every week. For four hours. Apparently, Canadian grass is better behaved and less aggressive than ours—but still, that’s some serious yard cred. She says mowing was great exercise, and oddly enough, she even enjoyed it. (Remind me to ask her again in July.)

Today, I managed to tackle about half the yard. Not bad, considering the battery drama and the early chill. If the weather behaves, I’m hoping to wrap things up on Thursday. Maybe I’ll sneak in a few strips tomorrow after my run, just to lighten the load.

Until then, the lawn can enjoy its semi-groomed half-makeover. It’s a work in progress—just like spring in Tennessee.

Posted on

When Pace Takes a Vacation but Discipline Sticks Around

Written April 5, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today’s 10K was less of a triumphant dash and more of a slow-motion struggle through a vat of soup. And not even the good kind. I had high hopes, but my target pace waved goodbye around kilometer three and disappeared into the haze. Disappointing? Yes. Defeated? Not quite.

Maybe it was the hours of mowing yesterday that zapped my energy. Maybe it was the humidity clinging to me like an overly affectionate sweater. Maybe both. Either way, my legs were staging a silent protest, and I wasn’t exactly in the mood for negotiations.

Running, I’ve realized, isn’t just about fitness. It’s about strategy. And in my case, environmental diplomacy. High humidity? Slippery slope. Bone-chilling cold? My body doesn’t thermoregulate like it used to. Wind, rain, pollution? I might as well be battling the elements in a Shakespearean tragedy.

This past week, Nashville’s spring air has been more “dust and doom” than “fresh and floral.” Toss in a humidity level that could make a rainforest jealous, and you’ve got the perfect storm for a sluggish run.

But here’s the thing—I log everything. Not because I’m obsessed with stats, but because I believe in the long view. My wife, ever the voice of reason (and wisdom), tells me not to ride the emotional rollercoaster of daily metrics. “Zoom out,” she says. “Don’t get caught up in the noise.” She’s right, of course. She usually is.

She barely checks her logs, preferring to focus on the process over the numbers. For her, it’s all about clear-headedness and Stoic discipline. No drama. No spirals. No “I ran three seconds slower, therefore I’m a failure” kind of thinking. Just steady progress.

I, on the other hand, am more of a grind-it-out type. Motivation is fleeting. Vision is sacred. Discipline is king. After all, I’ve clawed my way back from a place where simply moving my limbs felt like a miracle. Now, every step I take is a quiet rebellion against the limitations I once knew.

My wife often tells me she’s proud of me. That I’m her inspiration. She reminds me that not everyone bounces back from a brain stroke and decides to chase 10Ks for breakfast. She’s gently pushing me to become even healthier than I was before—and I’ve decided to take her advice literally.

Running is more than a hobby. It’s part of my mission to keep this body functioning, thriving, and dancing its way through life. Even when the weather’s rude. Even when my pace falls short. Even when progress feels like wading through molasses.

Success hasn’t shown up lately, but I know it’s lurking out there—probably waiting for the humidity to die down too. Until then, I’ll be tweaking, adjusting, experimenting. I may have overdone it early in the year, sprinting into a wall of fatigue, but that’s part of the journey. Now, I’m learning the rhythm of resilience. One humid, hopeful mile at a time.

Posted on

Why You Should Never Leave a Burner (or a Mitt) Unattended

Written April 4, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday flirted with disaster. Picture this: thunder rolled for days, turning our backyard into a soggy jungle. I had been patiently waiting for a window of calm to tame the lawn, and when it finally came, I seized the moment like a caffeinated gardener on a mission. I mowed with determination—until our battery-powered mower gave me the silent treatment. Twice.

Fast forward through two days of yard-wrangling, and suddenly, it was time to cook. That’s when the real storm hit.

Now, in my usual routine, I like to multitask like a culinary ninja. Pot of water on the stove, shower while it boils, then toss in the pasta like I’m on a cooking show. But yesterday, in my post-mowing haze, I made a fatal error—I turned on the wrong burner. The one with the oven mitt hanging out like it owned the place.

As I was finishing my shower, my wife burst in, wide-eyed and clearly not there to compliment my shampoo. “There’s a fire in the kitchen!” she shouted. Not exactly the lunchtime ambiance we had planned.

You see, my wife works from home, partly because her coworkers treat COVID precautions like optional side quests. After being exposed twice (yes, twice!) by colleagues who showed up sick and generous with their germs, she decided home was the safest battlefield. “Protect yourself because no one else will,” she says. She’s not wrong.

So there she was, taking a break from work, checking on me—and thank goodness she did. The oven mitt had caught fire on the countertop. She sprang into action like a firefighter in yoga pants, extinguishing the flames before they spread. The alarm blared, smoke wafted upstairs, and ash floated down like confetti at the world’s worst party.

The only casualty: one very crispy oven mitt. A faithful kitchen companion of over a decade, now reduced to charcoal couture. Upstairs, ash decorated everything like a light snowfall—but the damage could have been so much worse.

I felt awful. I scared my wife, created a mess, and unintentionally cremated her beloved mitt. Lesson learned: fire and showers do not mix. From now on, I will not leave the stove unattended, even for a pasta-boiling head start. Today’s plan? Vacuum the ash, apologize profusely, and maybe buy a fireproof timer… or a new mitt. Or both. Because, as it turns out, almost burning down the house is a terrible way to make lunch.

Posted on

Certified Mail, Windy Days, and Weeds in Disguise

Written April 2, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today’s schedule decided to throw on a costume and pretend it was someone else entirely. The usual rhythm was shuffled because my wife had an unexpected mission: delivering an important document to a P.O. Box—for her boss, no less. Apparently, some government agencies still insist on this paper-and-ink ritual, as if the internet is just a passing fad.

To make matters more official (and more stressful), it had to be sent by certified mail. Proof of mailing, proof of existence, proof that we’re still living in 1997—take your pick. She could have asked her office staff to handle it, but she prefers the old-fashioned way: doing it herself. She says it’s paranoia; I say it’s perfectionism with a stamp.

So off she went early in the morning while I stayed behind, holding down the fort (and the coffee). She asked me to join her at the post office later, which I knew was code for: “Let’s make a mini date out of bureaucracy.”

Meanwhile, I tried to stick to my usual routine—well, minus the fact I got up half an hour earlier than planned. I filled the extra time pulling weeds. Yes, weeds. It’s spring, which means those green freeloaders are popping up like they own the place. Some of them were already suiting up in their cotton-seed armor. I caught them just in time before they turned into airborne invaders.

The weather? A whole drama in itself. Just a few days ago, we had a bone-chilling cold and a tornado siren serenade. Today? Practically beach weather—minus the beach. It was warm enough to tempt me into mowing the lawn, but after my morning run, I had all the energy of a sunbaked lizard. Mowing was postponed due to “low battery.”

My wife eventually returned—slightly later than expected. Something must have held her up at the office. As soon as she got back, it was time for our grand postal adventure. She likes dragging me along for these errands, claiming it’s good to “go for a drive.” Translation: “I need someone to talk to while she is driving.”

It was a nice day to be out… if you ignored the wind trying to steal your hat and slap your face with your own hair. My wife mentioned that her morning run was a battle against the breeze. And apparently, more storms are on the horizon. Classic Nashville spring: three days of sunshine, followed by tornado warnings, and then a cold snap that makes you question reality.

She’s been meaning to tackle the front yard, but weekends haven’t been kind. Every Saturday and Sunday seem to come with a side of thunderstorms, served cold and soggy. She’s also planning to repaint the washroom while it’s not scorching hot. She’s hoping to sneak that in between rain clouds, if possible.

As for me? Tomorrow’s forecast still shows mercy. I’m aiming to mow the lawn before the next act in this weather soap opera begins. Fingers crossed that the mower cooperates—and that the weeds don’t regroup overnight.

Posted on

Lawn Wars: Episode I — The Procrastinator Awakens

Written April 1, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

We had a few glorious days of summer teasing us in spring—sunny, toasty, practically begging us to throw a backyard BBQ. Naturally, that was followed by a dramatic thunderstorm that rolled in like nature’s way of saying, “Just kidding!” Now, the lawns (or let’s be honest—mostly weeds) are popping up faster than mushrooms after rain. Blink, and it’s a jungle out there.

So yes, I finally broke out the mower today for the season’s grand premiere. Was I on top of it? Not quite. Did I wait until the grass whispered “Feed me” like a scene from Little Shop of Horrors? Absolutely.

Here’s the twist: that thunderstorm didn’t just bring lightning—it dropped the temps and left the ground moist enough to make any worm feel at home. I told myself, “I’ll wait until it warms up a bit.” And, well… you know how that goes. Suddenly, it’s go-time, and I’m only halfway through the lawn before I have to switch gears to handle more urgent stuff. Classic case of chore interrupted.

Now, time management has never exactly been my superpower. My wife, on the other hand, is a time ninja. She’s been planning her days backward since elementary school—mapping out roadblocks before they even show up. She’s basically got a sixth sense for scheduling. Me? I was more of the “wing it and win it” type. Pre-stroke, I’d procrastinate and still get things done—maybe not gracefully, but hey, results matter, right?

Post-stroke, things are a bit different. I’ve gained endurance, sure, but the prep time? Oh boy, it’s like slow-cooking a brisket. And let’s not forget the weather curveballs. Outdoor tasks are more like navigating an obstacle course built by Mother Nature herself.

According to the weather app (which is only slightly more reliable than a coin toss), we’re in for more thunder, more storms, and possibly a few surprise tornado drills. There might be windows—tiny, rain-free ones—where I can sneak in a mowing session. Fingers crossed.

Nashville, this time of year, is a real mixed bag: warm one minute, thunderous the next. I think I’ve officially earned the consequences of my lawn care procrastination. Lesson learned (again): next week, I start early—even if it means bundling up and mowing in the morning chill.

Wish me luck. Or better yet, send dry weather.

Posted on

Storm Season in Nashville: A Low-Pressure Soap Opera

Written March 31, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Welcome to storm season—where the clouds throw tantrums, the wind gets dramatic, and Nashville becomes the reluctant stage for nature’s thunderous Broadway.

Just last night, we got hit with a storm that clearly wanted to be noticed. The temperature, which had been gently warming up like a pleasant prelude, suddenly dropped like a diva exiting the stage mid-performance. And the sounds! Not your usual thunderclaps—oh no. My wife described it perfectly: it was like some giant beast dragging something massive across the earth. Less “boom,” more “is-the-ground-supposed-to-feel-like-this?”

Naturally, I couldn’t let the mystery go. Why do we always seem to get these dramatic sky shows around this time of year? So I did what any mildly obsessed weather-curious person would do—I fell down a rabbit hole of meteorological research.

Turns out, spring storms are the result of a moody mix of atmospheric drama. Think of the air way up high playing tug-of-war, stretching apart like cotton candy at a fair. That pulling action is called divergence—and when it happens, it creates a kind of empty space up there. But nature? She hates a vacuum. So air from lower down rushes upward to fill that void.

As that air rises, it lowers the pressure near the ground—hello, low-pressure system. And the more dramatic that divergence up high? The stronger the low-pressure system below. These powerful systems are basically the engines that power our stormy rollercoaster rides. Two of the most notorious culprits: the Colorado low and the Texas low. When these guys hit the road, they bring a stormy buffet—rain, thunder, snow, and maybe even a tornado if the mood strikes.

And wouldn’t you know it—Nashville has been playing temperature ping-pong all week. One day, it’s practically summer, the next, I’m wondering where I put my thermal running tights.

Speaking of which, that last storm forced me to haul out my cold-weather gear for a morning run. Not glove-worthy (yet), but brisk enough to make me reconsider my life choices. The yard is still soggy, but at least it’s warming up again—just enough to avoid jacket regret while mowing the lawn.

So, yes, my curiosity led me to a surprising lesson in storm science. Who says bad weather can’t be educational?

Posted on

Down the Rabbit Hole: Turning Our Bathroom into Wonderland

Written March 29, 2025

reviewed 4/5

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, my wife and I made an early pilgrimage to the sacred land of DIY dreams—Home Depot. Our mission? Paint samples. Our vision? A house reimagined through the lens of our favorite books and authors. First stop on this literary tour? The bathroom. Destination: Wonderland.

Yes, you heard right. We’re giving our bathroom an Alice in Wonderland makeover. My wife has been brewing this plan like a tea party with the Mad Hatter—delightful, slightly chaotic, and full of charm. The only thing that delayed the madness was the whirlwind of year-end busyness. But now that things have calmed down, she’s full steam ahead.

She’s already chosen a few color palettes—somewhere between “Mysterious Mushroom” and “Twilight Teacup”—and she’s got a new shower curtain that screams Wonderland… possibly literally. It’s whimsical, yes, but with a touch of “is this watching me?” about it. And while she loves the classic illustrations from the original book, the curtain looks like something the Queen of Hearts might use to hide a trapdoor.

The irony? My wife can’t stomach horror. She closes her eyes during mildly intense insurance commercials. And yet, here we are, about to paint the walls in colors that could double as names for Halloween nail polish.

Me? I’m oddly excited. After moving into this house, we’ve tackled a few projects ourselves—most notably turning the oversized storm shelter-slash-storage room into something halfway respectable. Half of it is now a functional storage space, complete with a sturdy wall shelves my wife designed like a woman possessed by the spirit of Marie Kondo meets MacGyver. That thing isn’t going anywhere.

Inside, we’ve stockpiled emergency gear: canned food, kombucha (because hipster emergencies are still emergencies), and other non-perishables. My wife, an accountant, often reminds me that even the fastest-growing companies crash when their inventory runs amok. She runs our pantry with the same logic. Minimalist? Not quite. Strategic and pragmatic? Absolutely.

Her quiet mission is turning this house into a haven—beautiful, yes, but with function tucked into every nook. She’s carving out cozy corners for reading, clean-lined spaces for writing, and nudging me gently toward making my workspace less “creative chaos” and more “well-oiled thinking machine.”

The book theme? That’s our shared guilty pleasure. Reading is our thing. So why not let it spill into the walls, quite literally? After Wonderland graces the bathroom, she already has plans to transport our dining room straight into The Great Gatsby. Yes, the Jazz Age is coming to dinner. Apparently, we even own a few paintings that “go with the theme.” Who knew?

So yes, it’s going to be a busy year. We’re not rushing. We’ll roll out the literary carpet one room at a time. Slowly but surely, like any good novel—chapter by chapter.