The most disciplined decision I’ve made recently did not occur at 5 a.m. It wasn’t a juice cleanse or a digital detox. It wasn’t even resisting the urge to buy something I didn’t need with two-day shipping.
It was canceling Amazon Prime.
Archive for May, 2026
Nobody warned me that 66 was the year my body would take a good hard look at my life choices, print out a PowerPoint presentation, and schedule a mandatory all-hands meeting. No agenda. No RSVP. Just a pop-up calendar invite that said: ‘Your body requests your immediate and undivided attention.’
I didn’t RSVP. My right foot showed up anyway.
It started subtly. I went to pivot left — a perfectly normal human maneuver I’ve executed maybe a hundred thousand times — and my right foot looked at me like I’d asked it to speak Mandarin. It dragged. Across the floor. Like a disgruntled coworker who just found out they’re not getting a raise. My foot staged a small but unmistakable protest, and I went down.
I didn’t fall. I performed an unscheduled relationship check with the floor. It went poorly.
Let me set the scene. It’s Friday morning. I’ve just used the bathroom, a perfectly ordinary human activity, except now I’m standing there wondering why my body has decided to add a little encore. A few uninvited drops. No reason. No warning. Just my nervous system freelancing.
Welcome to my life, where even the most mundane bodily functions have become a neurological adventure.
That was Friday morning. By Friday night, I had a severe ache digging into the left side of my eye socket like someone had parked a Buick behind my face. I took two Advil and went to sleep like a reasonable person. A hero, even. At 2:45 a.m., I was awakened by what I can only describe as my body filing a formal complaint with management. Not quite nausea. Not quite dizziness. More like my stomach and my inner ear had called a joint emergency meeting and didn’t invite the rest of me. I genuinely thought: this is it. This is how it ends. Not fighting a villain. Standing in the dark next to my bathroom at 2:45 in the morning.
I took a clonazepam and an ondansetron, because apparently I’ve become the kind of person who has a 2:45 a.m. protocol. And it worked. I went back to sleep. Superman lives to save another day.
But here’s the thing they don’t tell you about being Superman: the cape gets heavy.