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Spring Has Sprung, and So Has My Sarcasm (with a nod to Chuck)

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It’s the first day of spring. Mini victory in the never-ending game of life. The sun is teasing us, birds are auditioning for American Idol, and somewhere, a kid just sneezed pollen directly into your eyeball. (Yes, nature, I see you.)

And yet, here I am, thinking about home. Kansas City. The city of fountains—though honestly, I never cared much about the fountains (seriously, who’s impressed by water spraying from concrete?). What I do miss is... the Plaza lights at Christmas, which somehow made your heart glow bigger than your bank account. The legends. Lenny Dawson. George Brett. Men who actually taught you what loyalty looked like, none of this social media virtue-signaling nonsense.

Spring is supposed to be about renewal. But let’s be honest: the older you get, “renewal” mostly means remembering your allergies exist, realizing your knees crack like popcorn, and pretending you’re going to do something productive other than binge-watch Stranger Things (5) with the missus.

The Weight of It All (Yes, Literally). Let’s cut the fluff. I’ve spent a lifetime wrestling with weight—both the physical kind and the “why did I eat the entire tin of cookies?” kind. Right now, I’m 275 pounds. A year ago? 325. So yes, progress! Cue me patting myself on the back before I cave to chocolate. (It’s a tough life.)

BMI charts? Ha. They know less about me than a squirrel knows about tax law. They don’t account for late-night walks, skipped pizza slices, or the mental gymnastics of living in a world that thinks a number defines you. Newsflash: it doesn’t.

Aging: The Ultimate Comedy Show. Getting older is weird. You reach the age your parents were when you thought they had it all figured out… and then you realize they absolutely did not. Why do we walk into a room and immediately forget why? Why do our knees sound like microwave popcorn? Why do we suddenly care about lawn care with the intensity of a Shakespearean tragedy? And don’t even get me started on Sesame Street—suddenly it makes more sense than half the adult conversations you’ve endured all week.

I’m not aging gracefully. I’m aging snarkily. Confused. Grumpy. Still questioning the universe. Occasionally muttering, “Did I just say that out loud?”—and yes, sometimes to strangers. (Bonus points if they look horrified.)

Then there’s the rare moment of inspiration. Today, it came courtesy of a legend: Chuck Norris. Yes, Chuck Norris—the man whose beard alone could probably solve world peace. His passing reminds us older guys that relevance isn’t a fading memory. Chuck wasn’t just an actor, writer, and producer—he became a mythical symbol of endurance and badassery, thanks to the internet’s obsession with “Chuck Norris Facts.”

Some classics:

  • “Chuck Norris has a mug of nails instead of coffee in the morning.”
  • “Chuck Norris doesn’t do push-ups; he pushes the Earth down.”

Every time I looked up his age, I wasn’t just killing time—I was searching for hope. If Chuck could still be “doing it” at 86, maybe I could still do something well at 63. Maybe I could still have a story worth telling, a punchline worth delivering, or, at the very least, a respectable walk without pulling a muscle. Rest easy, Chuck. Age may be a number, but sometimes, it’s also hilarious.

Holidays are a Memory, not a Deadline. Sure, spring is here, but I can’t help it, I still get nostalgic. Christmas lights in the Plaza. Bing Crosby colliding with David Bowie in the soundtrack of my life. Songs your kids loved that you pretended to hate… until you realized you know every word now.

Christmas isn’t about what’s under the tree anymore. It’s about what’s missing from the room—and still laughing anyway. Because if you can’t find joy in a little chaos, what are you even doing? (Answer: probably online, arguing about something meaningless.)

Confusion is my New Superpower! Here’s a little secret: I don’t understand the world like I used to. Woke. Political correctness. Whatever term just dropped last Tuesday. Sometimes I feel like I need a translator, a nap, and maybe a stiff drink.

You know what? I’m okay with that. Not understanding something isn’t a weakness; it’s a survival skill. Not every hill needs a flag. Sometimes, shrugging and saying, “Yeah… I don’t get it,” is exactly the right answer. (Life advice, free of charge.)

The Stories We Actually Keep. Through all this: weight, aging, nostalgia, snarky observations, seasonal chaos, and legendary role models like Chuck, we are a collection of stories. Some are funny. Some hurt. Some make zero sense. But they’re ours. The Plaza lights. The songs. The late-night worries about elastic waistbands. The odd questions we never really ask aloud. All of it stacks up into something meaningful. Something real.

So… Where Does That Leave Me (Us)?  Somewhere in the middle. Not who we were. Not who we thought we’d be. Just… here. Laughing. Trying. Wondering if we left the stove on. Honestly? Whether we’re chasing memories of home, figuring out who we are now, or just trying not to eat the entire basket of Easter candy in one sitting… we’re all doing the best we can. If that isn’t a story worth telling? Well, the world can pound dirt (but watch out for my tulip bulbs)!

  





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