Category: Brian’s Journey

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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?

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The Great Coffee vs. Kidney Hydration Dilemma

Written 04/19/2025

reviewed 5/4

Hello Dear Readers,

When your kidneys start acting up, hydration isn’t just a good idea—it’s practically a medical mandate. My nephrologist (a.k.a. the Kidney Boss) has drilled this into me with the persistence of a motivational coach. “Drink more water!” he says. “Again!” he says. And I do try—I really do.

Enter: the water bottle that changed my life. My wife, ever the health-savvy hero, got me one of those time-marked bottles that tells you where you should be by 10 a.m., noon, and beyond. It’s like having a gentle but judgmental friend watching your hydration habits. And honestly? It works. I find myself drinking more water than I ever did before. The bottle nags, so I don’t have to.

Last summer was a bit of a cautionary tale. I wasn’t drinking enough, and my lab reports tattled on me. My numbers were off, and after my doctor played detective with my biometric logs, he traced the problem straight to—you guessed it—dehydration. As soon as I upped my water game, the lab results improved. Hydration: 1, Kidney Drama: 0.

Now that the summer sun is peeking out again, I’m back on hydration high alert. But here’s the kicker—my stomach has limited seating. It’s either Team Water or Team Coffee. There is no both. One in, one out.

I adore my morning coffee. That rich, warm energy boost is my AM ritual. But ever since I became a full-time water drinker, coffee’s been benched. There’s only so much liquid real estate in my stomach, and water now gets priority seating. Tragic, really.

On most days, I can live with this sacrifice. But Sunday? Sunday is sacred. That’s our coffee day. When autumn and winter roll around, my wife and I head to Starbucks like it’s a pilgrimage. We sip the seasonal brews with the reverence of monks. We even own a classic espresso maker—the kind that sits on the stovetop and hisses like it means business. My wife brews it on weekends when work doesn’t steal her away.

Still, if I have to choose between a functioning pair of kidneys and my beloved espresso shot…well, the kidneys win. Begrudgingly. The silver lining? My wife now has an extra share of coffee. And judging by how much she loves the stuff, I think she’s secretly thrilled.

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When Your Own Body Turns on You: A Tooth Tale

Written April 16, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

I had a dentist appointment yesterday — and let’s just say, I left with more existential dread than dental floss.

Apparently, one of my teeth is being resorbed. That’s right — my body has decided to eat its own tooth. No external villain, no cavity creeping in from the shadows. Just my own biology going, “You know what? Let’s dissolve that one.”

Naturally, I asked if I did something wrong. Too many sour candies? Brushed with existential angst instead of toothpaste? But no — my dentist assured me it’s idiopathic, which is medical-speak for, “We have no clue why this is happening.” Somehow, that’s both comforting and unsettling. Like, hooray, it’s not my fault! But also… why is my body betraying me like this?

So I did what any responsible adult does when faced with vague medical doom: I Googled it. Turns out, internal tooth resorption isn’t as rare as I thought. The dentin and pulp inside the tooth can just break down from within. Sometimes it stops on its own, sometimes it needs a root canal, and sometimes your tooth just… retires early.

The causes? Oh, pick your poison: past trauma, chronic inflammation, overzealous orthodontic adventures, certain medications, radiation therapy, or simply a bad roll of the genetic dice. My wife chimed in to say that sharks don’t have this problem — they just shed and regrow teeth like it’s no big deal. Of course, if we had that system, I imagine our grocery bills would skyrocket (to say nothing of the constant dental redecorating).

The kicker? This whole stealth operation happened between my last dental visit and now. No pain, no warning — just a rogue tooth slowly dissolving in silence. My wife’s on high alert now, mostly because dental issues can complicate things like implants, and with my kidneys being only mildly dramatic, we try to stay ahead of problems.

In a weird way, I’m relieved I didn’t cause it. I’ve been a reasonably well-behaved brusher. But knowing that resorption can strike again at any time, without rhyme or reason? That’s… well, tooth terrorism.

Anyway, the plan is a root canal. They’ll clean out the inside, seal it up, and send the tooth back into retirement with a gold watch and a filling. It’s my first root canal, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. Everyone says, “It’s not that bad,” which is exactly what people say about things that are, in fact, a little bad.

To end on a surreal note, my wife once told me about a cat that was allergic to cats. And now, here I am — a human allergic to my own tooth, apparently. Life is strange, bodies are weird, and dentistry remains the only profession where people actively fear chairs.

Wish me luck — and may your molars remain loyal.

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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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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.”