The day starts with a jolt: I wake up on the wrong piece of furniture and my back files a formal complaint down both legs. From there, everything turns into an offbeat survival guide—how to stand when you can’t, why stretching is the new humility, and what happens when laughter is the only thing that keeps a pain spiral from eating the whole day. Along the way I confess my love-hate with AI, the climate guilt that had me one click away from ordering bug protein, and the ridiculous debate over Vans versus Hokas when your spine is calling the shots.

What really sent my body over the edge wasn’t a gym fail—it was kindness disguised as housework. I’m solo at a friend’s place, washing three dogs, steaming carpets, scrubbing patios, and trying to make home feel safe again after a rough patch. The chaos is funny until it isn’t; then a clean, sad dog curls up on a familiar blanket and reminds me why we do any of it. You can’t explain timelines to a dog, so you stand there and reassure him with a hand on his head and a promise you mean.

Between jokes and yelps, we get blunt about aging, posture, money stress, and healthcare math, including the time I Ubered to the ER instead of riding an ambulance. I talk about using humor like a tool, not a mask, and about the weird grace of limits—how your body sometimes says the thing your mouth won’t. If you’ve ever tried to be useful while everything hurts, or wrestled with doing the right thing without losing yourself, this one will feel uncomfortably familiar and oddly hopeful.

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