Have you ever watched a disaster slowly unfold in real time—like spotting a banana peel on the floor, locking eyes with it, and instead of removing it, you just nod knowingly and say, “Yeah, this is gonna be a problem”? You even say it out loud, maybe to the universe, maybe to your cat. But do you stop it? No. You let fate do its thing like you're the narrator of your own reality show.

Every so often, I have an “old man yelling at the wall” moment. You know the type—I grumble into the void, “Things were better when…” before sighing, shrugging, and admitting that, alas, the future has arrived and brought its streaming services with it.

Tonight’s grumble was triggered at precisely 9:15 PM. We had just wrapped up our show around 9, and suddenly the undeniable craving for popcorn hit. And everyone knows, popcorn without something to watch is unnatural—possibly illegal. But here's the dilemma: it’s too late to start a full show, definitely too late for a movie, so… what do you toss on?

If you thought yesterday’s typhoon was a one-hit wonder, think again. This morning came back swinging like it was up for a Grammy. I overslept, hadn't unpacked, and was already three tasks behind before the clock even flirted with 8am. A couple quick attempts at to salvage the day—a rogue email here, a social post there—and then I gave the pug and the cat a few ceremonial scratches before tossing myself down the stairs.

Laptop? Packed. Fiber bars? Grabbed. Iced coffee? Brewing. And then… wait. LUNCH?! The horror.

Life comes in waves. Sometimes you’re peacefully floating on tube like a lazy river, and other times you’re gripping the sides of a rickety boat with one oar, no map, and a lot of incoming water. Naturally, when you’re scrambling to stay afloat, the first things tossed overboard are the classics: eating, sleeping, and exercising.

There’s something special about money—it’s a bit hard to describe. A collectible? No, that’s not quite it. A novelty! Yes, a novelty. An antique. Something your grandparents might yank out of their back pocket like a magic trick at Thanksgiving, drawing awe and excitement from someone who just took the training wheels off their bike.

Cash is nostalgic, sure. But let’s be real: we live in a tap-to-pay, face-scan-your-wallet, Venmo-me-later world. So why—why—are there still places clinging to cash like it’s a family heirloom?

Yup, the headline says it all. I’m in an all-out, passive-aggressive feud with Fiber. Yes—that Fiber. The one that’s supposedly your digestive BFF, your gut's personal life coach, the behind-the-scenes hero of health. But lately? We’re not on speaking terms.

Technically, the tension started last fall. But like any classic tale of hubris, I played Goliath. Fiber? Just some mild-mannered nutrient. No real threat. And, well…we all know how that story ends. Slingshot. Forehead. Regret.

Okay, okay — let’s address the obvious elephant on the screen. This column was supposed to be daily. Supposed to be. if you didn’t know that I suppose I just threw myself under the bus, for better or worse, I’ll survive.

So what happened?

Life. Life happened. Ugh. I know, how cliché. Queue the violins, right? But really — the last few weeks have just been one big ol’ emotional meh. Blah. Like pop left open overnight….flat. Everything hit a plateau.

Chantel woke up one day last week with this crazy, inexplicable urge to go back to the gym. I wasn’t complaining- truthfully, I did really need to get back there and make my recently un-paused (against my desire) gym membership worth the price.

But then, she suggested we take a class. A class! At 8AM. On a Saturday….sure, why the heck not. I will count it as training for grandmothers, and the best part is, I don’t have to run! HA

I strolled into the office bathroom, like any ol’ uneventful day, when—BAM—I was hit with the kind of stench that slaps the soul right outta your body. A smell so vile, so apocalyptic, it could literally take the life of a newborn. It was that bad. But I had no choice… I had to pee.

Strategically thinking, I leaned back into the hallway, took the deepest breath my lungs could physically handle and marched in to battle.

We all have our personal obstacles of adulthood. For some, it’s doing dishes. For others, it’s vacuuming. And laundry? Honestly, no one likes laundry. But my personal nemesis? Grocery shopping. Being dropped into a new store could only make things worse. So of course, a brand-new Trader Joe’s opens. Not just anywhere, but right off the road I regularly travel. Is this a sign? A trap? A test from the universe?

Today kicked off like any other Monday: the dreaded pilgrimage to the office. Mandatory Monday. Blugh.

But corporate knows our weaknesses. They bait us with bagels. And, unfortunately, it works. Every. Single. Time. I now fully understand why fish keep falling for shiny hooks. Free food is free food — and one less meal to stress about at the grocery store. Hook, line, and schmear me up.

We waltzed in at 8:58 a.m., still rubbing the sleep from our eyes. Chantel had limited time — her boss needed help ASAP with cart-wheeling provisions for an office wedding shower. But first: the eternal question — bagels now or later? But we both knew “later” was just a fancy word for “never.”

Every now and then, I get this weird little feeling that we, as a society, have peaked in the food and drink department. Like, how many more ways can we remix a burger? Pasta has been around since forever, coffee’s been reinvented 932 times, and even wine’s getting weird with “natural” blends that taste like regret. Sure, Oreos and Mountain Dew are out here doing their chaotic flavor collabs…Sea Salt Bubblegum Taffy, anyone? but I’m talking about real food. The kind you find on a menu, not in a dare.

And then, just when I’m convinced the culinary world has officially run out of ideas… a curveball smacks me in the taste buds.

It’s not a question I ask often….and definitely not when I’m plopped on my couch, in sweats. Not because my home-cooked meals are bad (they’re not, I swear!) and certainly not because I have any beef with the Star Baker herself. It’s just… most of the time, dinner at home is less culinary event and more fuel for survival. We're not chasing Michelin stars; we’re chasing simplicity. No obscure spices we’ll only use once. No YouTube deep dives on how to julienne something. Just vibes and sustenance.

Every now and then, we do crack open a cookbook, bust out the pasta maker, and wow ourselves. But even in those rare, flour-dusted moments, the thought “Could this be the best meal I’ve ever had?” rarely enters the neighborhood.

But tonight? Oh, tonight it barged in.

Once a week, I helm a pretty sizable meeting at the agency. It kicks off at 5 minutes past the hour, which leaves a small period of the abyss between :00 and :05 where people just...exist. Hovering in the virtual void. Staring into their camera off icons. Waiting.

And look, as the fearless leader of this digital gathering, it feels wrong—nay, criminal—to let my colleagues float in that awkward silence. So, the bit is I become a DJ.

I like DJs. I respect their craft. But in this time, I’ve learned a rather harsh reality. There are just too many love songs. And for those that need a reminder…I work with my wife. She’s on these calls.

Hand up. Nope, still don’t have a REAL ID. That’s 100% on me. I’ve had ample time—literal decades, actually—to knock this off the to-do list. In fact, the Department of Homeland Security has been teasing this rollout since before I turned 10. And yet, here we are. ID-less. Star-less. And somehow still surprised?

I didn’t plan on getting a tattoo. Not that night, not that trip, not at 1 a.m. But look, a lot of you Taggies already know I’ve had the idea brewing — the travel sleeve. A tattoo for every adventure. Not necessarily something obvious like the Statue of Liberty for New York (we’re not basic), but something quirky. A jalapeño, maybe. A symbol. A little Easter egg memory from each trip that, when put together, would tell my story.

The problem? I could never quite commit to the first one. Like picking the first song at the pre-game, high-pressure, sets the tone. I had ideas, sure. But timing? Never quite lined up. Courage? Occasionally out of office.

It’s not uncommon for me to be ravenous after a flight. I’m usually a snack-hoarder, packing my bag with treats to keep my stomach satisfied in the sky. But coming back from Vegas? I totally dropped the ball. My stomach started growling before we even began our descent. This wasn’t just your average hunger—this was starvation. With a primary focus to get home and sleep. What will I do?

There were so many meme options I could’ve used to kick this column off, but let’s not overcomplicate things: I’m back, baby.

Against all odds (though let’s be real, Vegas had me at -10000 to recover), I have emerged victorious in the great viral war of 2025. It was a brutal 4-5 day siege—fever dreams, congestion chaos, and emotional bargaining with the universe—but I made it. And now? I’ve never seen life more clearly. This is the dawn of my Healthy Era™.

Against all odds and natural laws, we did it. We finished the tub of yogurt. Why is this a big deal? Because I’m fairly certain this has never once happened in the history of The Bag Tag household. Maybe you, Taggie, have accomplished such feats before, but here? This is uncharted territory. A new era. A yogurt milestone. How it took this long, I have no idea.

Is this how it ends for me? Not in a blaze of glory. Not even crossing the terrifying threshold of thirty (the universally agreed-upon expiration date for anyone under 29) but by something as pathetically weak as a cough and a sneeze? I wish I could say I was being dramatic, but trust me, dear reader... I am not.