Mr. Radio Breaks His Silence

Throughout my life, I’ve had complete strangers who, upon hearing me speak, ask if I work in radio. I’m always caught off guard by the question, because any time I’ve heard my voice on recordings I cringe at what sounds to me like a nasally camp counselor struggling to convince the rowdy teenagers that I’m in charge. 

“In about five seconds I’m going to start taking away miniature golf privileges. Do not test me!”

My reservations notwithstanding, the comments keep coming. While making small talk at the dentist the other day, the hygienist said, "You have a great radio voice." 

"Actually," I told her, "I sit silently for big stretches of time writing. I might not say a single word for hours" 

"That's ironic," she said.

I suppose she had a point as I look back on years of quietly tapping the keyboard. When I’m thinking things through, my so-called radio voice is reduced to the murmurs and mutters that come with the process of herding words into something worth reading. Ironic indeed.

This whole quirk of nature is truly a mystery to me. My father had a normal speaking voice. My mother does, too. In fact, as far as I know, no other member of my family has been mistaken for an announcer or radio personality, though several have been confused with certified meteorologists.

At times, I’d felt a twinge of guilt about wasting a natural resource like a broadcast-quality voice.  Give the people what they want, I would chide myself. Break your silence and share the gift! Go out and earn the title of “Mr. Radio” instead of disappointing those who already think you are. 

I pictured my enormous face plastered on the sides of buses, all air-brushed and slaphappy like local on-air celebs in every American city. Honk if you love Big Head! I would change my name, of course – something flashy and fade-resistant, with a back story to match. Something like…

Kip Caramia. Bilingual in English and Gobbledegook, Kip is hailed as “the coffee addict’s voice of choice” for his popular morning radio show “Sip a Cup With Kip.” In addition to his on-air impact, he has earned a reputation for speaking eloquently in front of large crowds at business functions without prior knowledge of the function's purpose or the makeup of his audience. His specialty: Winning over audiences by addressing them frequently as "a fine group of buckeroos" and limiting his speeches to exactly 11 minutes. 

Or maybe more like…

Lee Largo. A radio legend renowned for his ability to pronounce difficult words like “incalculable” and “Timothee Chalamet,” Lee is also a Unitarian Universalist minister. His best-selling book, Knock, Knock – Anyone Home?,  became the springboard for a speaking career that has taken him on nationwide tours of second-rate amphitheaters, dilapidated band shells and flea market food courts. 

Or possibly…

Connor Bradley. Beloved by radio listeners for practical pointers like the importance of grunting while lifting heavy objects, Connor’s speaking tours keep him on the road 200 days out of the year, sharing the personal wisdom behind his wildly popular podcasts and seminars. His many nuggets of inspiration include such penetrating insights as:

“Happiness is a choice you make when you feed your subconscious the nutrition of yes.”

“You prepare for greatness by maximizing your must-ness.” And, most profoundly…

“Dare to embrace your inner hero and your worries will surrender to the odor of your aura.”

The dirty little truth behind these absurd sayings is that if you come equipped with a voice that sounds microphone-ready, people will lap them up and label you brilliant. How can I make such a bold statement, you ask? It’s because as Mr. Radio I’ve walked the walk and talked the talk. 

But alas, that’s not the road I’ve traveled. Except for some late-night deejaying in college and the occasional voiceover gig during my time in advertising, I’ve been mostly radio silent. So when people compliment me on my voice, I simply tell them that my secret is to drink plenty of warm water with honey and lemon. Also, that I'm the bastard child of iconic game show host Wink Martindale. (Wink, wink.)

Reporting live from a quiet corner of my home, this is Mr. Radio signing off.

A Florida Whimp Whines About Winter

Cold enough for you? I’m freezing.

It was so cold this morning, I saw a squirrel wearing a hoodie.

It was so cold, I saw a collie in line at Dunkin' ordering a double expresso.

It was so cold, a raccoon asked me for directions to the Burlington Coat Factory.

Exactly how cold was it, you ask? It was 41 degrees. In Florida. Okay, I’m not expecting anyone to throw a telethon for us. I’m not even expecting an outpouring of sympathy for my discomfort. But after 40 years as a Floridian, I hope you can appreciate the hardship I’m enduring as I face temperatures well below the 75 degrees I’m used to in the winter months.

“Oh, poor baby,” my brother Jim scoffed during an early January phone call. “It’s 14 degrees here in Nebraska and we haven’t seen the sun in six days.”

“But your 14 degrees is the equivalent of our 41 degrees,” I countered lamely, pointing out the blood thinning effect of spending decades in a subtropical steam bath.

“In a few days you’ll be back soaking up the sun,” my brother ventured. “Meanwhile, we’ll be huddled by the fireplace taking swigs from a flask of whiskey and praying our provisions hold out till spring.”

“It was so cold this morning, I saw an egret wearing leg warmers,” I blurted, trying to match melodrama with imaginary wildlife.

Dressing For Distress

One of the first things you notice when the temperature drops is that a Florida cold snap brings out some strange wardrobe adjustments.

While running errands yesterday I saw a woman on a bicycle wearing a heavy winter coat with a hood. She was also wearing shorts. Earlier today I saw a guy wearing sandals, shorts and a heavy knit sweater. In both cases, it's as if their upper and lower bodies came from two different climates and formed an uneasy alliance in search of better weather.

To be honest, I’m not immune to wardrobe confusion either. When you spend the better part of the year in shorts and a t-shirt, assembling an outfit suited for cooler conditions doesn’t come easily. A long sleeve tee and jeans feels like a logical upgrade, but what if the daytime high never gets out of the 50s?

Under the right circumstances, a mid-weight sweater would be a sensible choice, but that depends on if it’s windy or not. Maybe that heavier sweater that feels like wool but is really acrylic needs to be exhumed from the cedar chest. And what of that smell embedded in the garment? Is that the cedar chest scent or the cold sweat ghosts of Christmas’s past?

Whatever ensemble I pick, I’m invariably too warm, too cold, or convinced that the apparel I need was donated to a long-ago clothes drive because “I’ll never need this stuff in Florida.” Think again, Sonny Sockless.

Hunkering Down Until The Temp Goes Up

When the weather got unseasonably cold, my wife and I found ourselves downshifting to a hunker down lifestyle, canceling all plans and priorities that involved leaving the house.

“What do you want to do today?” I asked Sherry, hoping she was as committed to sustaining cozy comfort as I was.

“I’m content just to putz around the house,” Sherry confided, leaving details up in the air.

“Let’s do that,” I agreed. “I think we have our hands full maintaining body temperature. I’d hate to lose focus on that just to feel actively engaged in the world around us. Besides, it was so cold this morning, I saw a sand hill crane wearing flannel pajamas.” (I have a million of them.)

As the chilly days dragged on and the sun kept its distance, we realized that we were no different that most other Floridians: A lucky group of hearty souls who, despite our sun-splash lives, reserve the right to whine about any dip in temperature that makes us reach for a light jacket.

If nothing else, I hope this cold weather commentary raises awareness around the rest of the country that winter's icy assault sometimes effects Florida folks, too.

To my fellow Americans in Northern and Mid-Western States: Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

To my Fellow Frozen-In-Place Floridians: We WILL get through this. Your courage and resilience give me goosebumps.

Of course, that could just be my body’s reaction to the temperature dipping below 60 degrees.

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The Art of Aging Gratefully

As each passing year has snuck up and shoved me a little further into senior citizenship, I am struck by how my view of the world and myself keeps changing. Consider these revealing signs of age-related evolution:

• I refer to people who drive any faster than I do as “maniacs.”

• My idea of hitting the club scene is shopping at Costco.

• I moved to a 55 Plus community so that when I use bygone words like “transistor radio,” “Mickey Mantle,” or “the Sears catalog” people know what I'm talking about.

• I divide my life into two periods: “The Agricultural Age” when I could eat everything in sight and not gain weight, and “The Information Age” where I read everything in sight about eating better to lose weight. 

• I say things like “Be careful, it’s a jungle out there” and “Can someone please explain to me why a baseball player is worth $10 million a year while a teacher only makes $35,000?”

• When I pull a muscle, twist an ankle, or otherwise injure myself in even a minor way, I know from experience that my recovery time may parallel the duration and comfort level of hiking cross country while pushing a barbecue grill. 

After another year rushed by and propelled me forward, I decided to launch an all-out search for the deeper meaning of my life. Conveniently, I found it on a celebrity website where I read that Rod Stewart, George Foreman and Frank Sinatra Jr. were all born on the same day as me. This is a truly fascinating piece of trivia since I’ve always thought that if you could somehow genetically combine those three men, you’d wind up with me. 

Okay, I haven’t always thought that, or even thought it once prior to seeing their names linked together by a random date on the calendar, but trivia always make me take a serious look at things.

Take the gray hairs that are appearing on my head in growing numbers. I tell myself that the gray I’ll be seeing in the mirror from here on out will come so gradually that almost nobody will notice. Oh sure, kids can be cruel (“Look mommy, it’s Wolf Blitzer!”) but most people will be too busy staring at their phones to separate the salt from the pepper.

Besides, I have come to see the significance of things like gray hairs as symbolizing the seasons of life. In case you hadn’t thought about it before, in your teens and 20s you’re in the springtime of your years. By the time you hit your 30s and 40s you are in summer. I’m in my late 60s. It’s mid-October from where I’m standing and I’m not in any hurry for the autumn leaves to fall.

Hey, I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. Well, not my whole life. But part of the fall and all of winter. With daily walks, a good multi-vitamin, proper colon care and afternoon naps, I should be able to keep that youthful spark that makes life worthwhile for us aging boomers.

One thing I know for sure at this stage of the game: It’s a nice place to get to in life where nothing much dazzles you but you have a quiet appreciation for many things. I’m there and I do.

Life is precious and tomorrow isn’t promised. So enjoy every sunset. Every sandwich. Every song. Every laugh. Every hug. Every new morning. Every old friend.

I think Oliver Wendell Holmes put aging in the best perspective when he said, “What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” In my case, I’ve discovered that what lies within is a nine-year-old boy who, in spite of evidence to the contrary, thinks if he runs across the lawn fast enough and jumps in just the right way, he can one day fly. 

Aging gratefully? You bet I am.

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My Wild Lake Life

Let me confess something right up front: My vision for a happy retirement was to live on a golf course in Central Florida. It has nothing to do with my love of golf or my desire to awaken a dormant gift for the game in my golden years. 

Truth be told, I’ve never played golf and don’t know if I ever will. It’s just that after years of being surrounded by houses on zero lot lines, my wife Sherry and I longed for the scenic buffer the green space of golf would give us.

So how did we wind up living on a lake? I guess you could say some luck lies in not getting what you thought you wanted but getting something unexpectedly exceptional instead. 

With close to a year of swinging and missing in our golf villa search, we decided to expand our criteria. I let our realtor know that in addition to a golf course, our next home could back up to a preserve, park, lake or pond. When a lake house turned up shortly thereafter, we pounced like a Great Egret plucking a passing fish from the shallow water.

Egrets and Heron and Deer – Oh My!

Thanks to its tropical climate and numerous wetland habitats, Florida is home to over 500 native and migratory birds. Many of these diverse species have thoughtfully given me a chance to improve my bird knowledge by frolicking in full view outside my screened patio.

“Look – it’s a suburban butternut stork,” I excitedly alert my wife, hiding my limited avian expertise behind a façade of feathery wordplay. “They’re unapologetically omnivorous and feed on frogs, lizards, small rodents, and pan-fried crab cakes.”

“That’s a Great Blue Heron,” Sherry corrects me, having Googled “Florida birds” and given herself the aura of an Audubon Ambassador. “They’re actually skilled predators that feed on fish, rodents, frogs, reptiles and small birds.”

“It’s good to be at the top of the food chain with them around,” I joke, grateful for the unearned advantage.

The egrets and herons are almost daily guests in our well-attended lake show, along with periodic visits from pelicans, ibis, sandhill cranes, ducks and Roseate spoonbills – a bizarrely-conceived creature that looks like a cross between a flamingo and a kitchen gadget.

My favorite tourists are a mama deer and her fawn, who occasionally make their way slowly from yard to yard, foraging on leaves, twigs, stems, and plants. It’s a hard way to eat more salad, but they seem to manage it. 

The fawn is rambunctious, often leaving the mother’s side to explore some curiosity a few houses away. I sense the protective instinct kicking in, and in echoes of mothers everywhere I can imagine her yelling, “Hey, what did I tell you about running off? Now get your tail back here before you wind up missing like your cousin Venison!”

Later Gator

Once in a while we’ll spot an alligator quietly floating along. Some people say that living by a lake where there are alligators is dangerous. But I say driving a car is much more dangerous. Especially if there’s an alligator hiding in the backseat.

One day I noticed a gator uncomfortably close to the water’s edge eyeing an ibis that was pacing back and forth a few feet away. I hurriedly grabbed my binoculars anticipating a deadly encounter between predator and prey. After several minutes of tension-filled inactivity, I asked myself a practical question: Do I really want to witness an act of swift and brutal violence that will stay tattooed on my brain forever? The answer was no. That’s what R-rated movies are for.

Fortunately the ibis flew away, the gator moved on, and I made a mental note to avoid scenes of horrific mayhem. I haven’t watched the news in three weeks.

Going Deep

When friends come to visit they sometimes ask what goes on out on the lake.

“Can you swim in it?” No, I say.

“Boating?” Again, no.

“Can you kayak, snorkel, waterboard?” Not a chance.

When the questions run their course, I patiently explain that our lake is one just for looking at – a haven for wonderful wildlife, a magnificent mirror to the sun and moon, and a peaceful source of reflection and inspiration.

For those who crave a murkier portrayal, I tell them I’m working on a new mystery novel entitled “Looking In The Lake.”

What’s in the lake? Who is looking? How deep is the water? Are there weird fish? Is a pretty town girl missing?

I fear I’ve said too much already.

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What's New At The Zoo

I read somewhere that 80% of the Earth's species have yet to be discovered. Or as one of the undiscovered species likes to put it, "I'll be waiting next time you take the garbage out at night, home boy."

After a recent trip to Central Florida’s Brevard Zoo, I’ve got good news: the missing species search can be cancelled. They’re here. Okay, maybe not every single one of them, but excluding Big Foot and the Loc Ness Monster, the zoo is teeming with obscure and exotic creatures. Skeptical? Let me introduce you to a few.

White-Nosed Coati. Resembling a cross between a raccoon and a opossum, these omnivores have long supple snouts well suited for foraging in crevices, holes and, if given access, couch cushions. Female coati band together in groups while the males live solitary lives, except during breeding season when they can be found hanging out at bars reeking of cologne and waving their tails seductively.

Black-Crowned Cranes. Hailing from West Africa, these rare birds are known to form loving, exclusive relationships with a partner. Royal and Goose, the Brevard Zoo’s resident black-crowned fun couple, can often be seen dancing and flirting with each other. When their habitat wanderings leave them temporarily separated, they let out loud squawking sounds to make sure the other is still nearby. Once reunited, they taper off to a soft clucking noise and downplay their previous panic saying things like “just playing” and “I really had you going there.”

Two-Toed Sloth. There’s slow and then there’s sloth slow. These laid-back mammals spend most of their lives in trees, and because their metabolism is so sluggish, they don’t come down for days on end before needing to eat or relieve themselves. During our visit, a zoo worker told us that an 18-year-old sloth named Sammy we were looking at was pregnant. “Pregnant!?” I blurted in mock disbelief. “I didn’t even know she was dating!”

Alligator Snapping Turtle. Look, it’s an alligator! No, it’s a snapping turtle! Wait – is there such a thing as an alligator snapping turtle? The answer is yes, his name is Capone and he’s swimming right toward you with his bone-crushing jaws and dinosaur-like tail. Good thing he’s incased in his aquatic habitat and you’re on the outside wondering how you could get a selfie with him and live to tell about it. According to one of the animal caregivers at the zoo, Capone is “smart, engaging and silly,” much like a reptile Ellen Degeneres.

While getting to know all the zoo’s colorful creatures, it’s required that visitors follow a few basic rules of the wild.

-  Do not make animal sounds that mimic wildlife in an insensitive way. (In my defense, I thought my orangutang impression was spirited but respectful.)

- No feeding the animals unauthorized food. Translation: Spare them the disgusting slop you shove down your pie hole on a daily basis.

- Leave your pet at home. The zoo’s animal population has plenty of diversity without adding your cockapoo or blue tick hunting hound.

- No shirt, no shoes, no zoo admission. Unless there’s a Tarzan lookalike contest that day, then a tasteful loincloth and body oil is permissible.

- When petting a female kangaroo, refrain from saying things like “is that a baby in your pouch or are you just packing on the pounds.” (They won’t get a kick out of it, but you will. A nasty bite, too.)

- Visitors who carry a journal with them to take notes should guard it closely around the spider monkeys. They will snatch it and read embarrassing entries out loud, such as: “My Dearest Darling, Oh how I ache for your tender touch, your hairless face against my tattooed neck.” (Real funny, Coco. Hope you never have a journal go missing.)

- If you think an animal has whispered the words “get me out of here” to you, you may be experiencing a heat exhaustion hallucination. Seek shade and hydration immediately, preferably away from the alleged disgruntled animal. They are either a figment of your imagination or an ungrateful troublemaker – either way, your best move is to sever ties.

Keeping these sensible guidelines in mind, you owe it to yourself to plan an outing at the zoo soon. The confining cages of the past have given way to energizing open-air habitats where wildlife of all kinds can thrive.

Chances are, you will discover some animals you never even knew existed. And trust me, it’s better to meet them at the zoo than the next time you take the garbage out at night.

A Word About Wordle

When debating the single greatest invention of all time, one could make a good case for words. If they’re not number one, they would at least have to be in the top five. Think about it. Without words, our attempts at communication would be reduced to a series of grunts, gestures and facial expressions. Such primitive methods would leave a lot open to interpretation.

For example, without the words “Will you marry me,” a proposal delivered with grunts and gestures might result in two people training for a half marathon together. Conversely, without the words “What are your plans for the weekend,” a confused couple could jump into a quickie wedding presided over by a heavyset Elvis impersonator.

A working command of words took on even more importance a few years ago when the game Wordle caught fire and won a following that made Taylor Swift fans look like a small cult. For those who don’t know (both of you), Wordle is a web-based game developed by a sadistic software engineer named Josh Wardle. Every day, the diabolical Wardle grants players six attempts to guess a five-letter word that has no tie-in to any theme, trend or topic.

After every blind swing to hit on a random unfathomable word, each letter is marked either green, yellow or gray. Green means the letter is correct and in the right position; yellow means it is part of the answer but in the wrong spot; gray means it is not in the answer at all. Sound like fun? That depends. Do you like the challenge of a spelling bee where no one gives you the word you need to spell?

This Is Your Brain On Wordle

Try as you might to resist it, Wordle has a powerful ability to keep you coming back for another crack at five-letter glory. For me, it starts each day minutes after waking up. I grab my tablet and stare at the screen while the coffee brews, waiting for the inspiration to tap in a starter word. Since your brain has no way to logically or strategically uncover the word in question, the possibilities are wide open. RIVER? ONION? PANTS? LOOPY? It could be any of these, just not on the day you guess them.

I have certain go-to words I frequently start with such as DREAM, LEARN, FRESH or SMILE, but they’ve been no more effective than looking at my elbow and typing ELBOW. Sometimes I convince myself that because I had pasta the night before, I need to start with the word PASTA. I’ll type in PASTA, eagerly anticipating that I’m about to hit the target on my first try only to go 0 for 6 and find out the word was GEESE.  

One of the first tips seasoned Wordle players give you is to always include two or three vowels in your guesses. The theory being that even if the vowels are in the wrong sequence, there’s a high probability they are building blocks for the answer at large. This sounds like a reasonable approach until you plug in something like IRATE and the word comes up GYPSY.

The Need For Speed

Part of Wordle’s addictive appeal is that it’s a game that can be played quickly, returning you to your regularly scheduled life in just a few minutes. Except when the brain tease becomes a brain freeze and five minutes becomes 25 minutes. When this happens, I reach deep within me to find the tenacity and grit to keep trying no matter how long it takes.

Okay, I wish that were true. What actually happens around the 20-minute mark is I take my last incorrect guess (FROCK) and repeat it several times (FROCK, FROCK, FROCK) until I reach the six-attempt limit that triggers the correct answer. Tanking a game is not something I’m proud of, but on the other hand, I know that the answer that eluded me was AGONY and mine ended sooner rather than later.

Bragging Rights

In my family, there are recognized Wordle standards of performance to guess the winning word that stack up as follows:

Two or three tries:  Woo Hoo worthy.

Four tries: Fair but 4-gettable.

Five tries: Nothing to high five about.

Six tries: You stunk, but survived shutout shame.

My mom, a retired librarian and voracious reader, regularly tops my daily score. If I get it in four, she gets three. If I get three, she gets two. If I get two, she gets two faster. She’s also a willing partner to my grumbling about the game’s self-perceived shortcomings.

Me: “Since when is CRONE a word?”

Mom: “Exactly. I’m so sick of these words I’ve never heard of.”

Me: “I just looked up the definition: ‘A cruel or ugly old woman.’ Seriously Wordle?”

Mom: “They must be running out of five-letter words.”

Me: “I’ve got one for them: BOGUS!”

My petty complaints notwithstanding, Wordle has added a nice little routine to my mornings that jump-starts my brain and gets my juices flowing for the day ahead.

And when all goes well and the right letters some early and easy, there’s one five-letter word that perfectly describes my flashes of brilliance as a Wordle player: LUCKY.

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Home Boy Hits The Gym

The number on my blood results jumped off the page: Total Cholesterol 246. It was the latest in a series of reality checks that appeared to indicate a decline in overall health. Other red flags over the last nine months included a 12-pound weight gain, the energy level of an aging panda, and a tendency to count the extra steps taken by parking farther from a store as “high-intensity exercise.”

“I have to start working out again,” I announced to my wife, a bag of potato chips in one hand, the TV remote in the other.

“Just start slow and don’t overdo it,” Sherry cautioned. “You’ve been pretty inactive, and you don’t need to try all the equipment at the gym the first time out.”

 When she said the word “gym” I cringed. The 55-plus community we moved to 6 months ago has a perfectly fine fitness center, but I had been working out at home for 20 plus years. My gym was a spare room in our house featuring a lat machine, weight bench, dumbbells, and a membership of one: me.

Working Through Workout Worries

The idea of using a gym open to others filled me with angst and unanswered questions.

How can I learn to use unfamiliar equipment without looking like a newbie? 

What’s an acceptable amount of talking, grunting, flexing or moaning?

What do I bring? A towel? Two towels? A gym bag? A backpack? A workout log? A log from a tree for bicep curls?

Should I hire a personal trainer or be my own trainer barking nonsensical orders at myself like “blast those lard barrels!” and “squat till you squawk!”

Putting nagging questions about gym etiquette aside, I decided to follow the lead of writer Joseph Campbell who said, “The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.”

A Trip To The Cave… a.k.a. Gym.

As I entered the fitness center for the first time, I was whisked into a world where sleek, high-tech equipment stands ready to rejuvenate the tattered, time-beaten bodies of me and my fellow youth seekers.

Where does one start? The pec deck? The power rower? The cable crossover station? Let’s get real. I headed straight for the rack of dumbbells, secure in my knowledge of how to use these basic muscle building tools.

As I did some warm-up shoulder presses and hammer curls, I scanned my surroundings to survey the activities of my gym mates. All three of them. One man sat on a weight bench recovering from whatever he had just put himself through. Another roamed the floor, looking like someone in search of motivation… or possibly a misplaced water bottle. A woman worked out energetically near a mirrored wall, swinging some light weights and swaying to the sounds of a private playlist embedded in her musical memory.

The man on the weight bench walked by on his way out and offered some friendly advice: “Be careful on the ab machine. It kills your shoulders.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I replied watching him shuffle away, his drooping shoulders a pitiful casualty of my gender’s misguided pursuit of six pack abs. To my fellow man I say forget six pack abs. Ditto buns of steel. Be grateful for the camouflage of clothes and opportunities to impress others with attributes independent of the body.

Pumping Iron, Popping Advil

Emboldened by my all-access freedom in a nearly empty gym, I headed to the chest press machine and locked in the weight stack at a level that seemed appropriate. Guess again, home boy. I could barely budge the weight, and after moving the pin down another notch, not once, but twice, I became intimately acquainted with the backsliding price of my recent inertia. I would have to downshift my workout regimen to Plan B: Cut the Bull and Build Back Slowly. Okay, it’s more like plan BBB, but that acronym has other frames of reference that I’m not willing to butt buns of steel with.

For 45 minutes I meandered from machine to machine, reading instructions and trying out exercises. I did squats, presses and rows. I did pull-ups, curls and dips.  I was feeling right at home in this formerly unfamiliar world, a place where steroid-fueled he-men and narcissistic super women were noticeably missing in action. But what was also missing in action was my wife’s commonsense suggestion to take it easy my first time out.

“How’d it go?” Sherry asked as I came through the door.

“Really good,” I reported. “But I’m going to need a lot of ibuprofen the next few days.”

“What happened?”

“Remember when you said take it slow and don’t overdo it?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, I got caught up in the moment, went all out and completely overdid it.”

As Sherry shook her head in disbelief, my mind raced for something to say to redeem myself.

“At least I’m not like the guy who killed his shoulders misusing the ab machine,” I ventured lamely. “Now he can’t lift his arms and his poor wife has to feed him by hand.”

“You would lose a lot of weight in that scenario,” Sherry predicted.

My wife. She would make an excellent personal trainer. I wonder if she’s accepting new clients?

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