Hello, Hive! Yes, I am still alive, though there were certainly a few moments over the past month where I seriously questioned that fact.
It has been quite a while since my last post, and I know you’ve all been sitting on the edge of your seats, desperately refreshing your feeds, wondering where I’ve been. Well, the truth is, my prolonged absence comes down to a few reasons, but the absolute main culprit has been sheer, unadulterated physical discomfort.
Yesterday, I finally swallowed the last pill of a grueling 22-day course of antibiotics. The reason? A massive, highly unpleasant inflammation situated exactly in that awkward twilight zone between my neck and my head. Let me tell you, when the very hinge that connects your brain to the rest of your body decides to declare war, every single movement becomes a miserable calculation. Looking left to check for traffic? Pain. Nodding at my wife when she asks a question? Agony. Trying to look at the ceiling to question the cruel universe about my suffering? Don't even try it. I was walking around like a rusted robot for three solid weeks.
To make matters infinitely worse, the day after I managed to drag my stiff neck to my family doctor, he promptly went on a six-week medical leave for his own surgery. Now, if you are not from Belgium, let me explain a fun little administrative quirk of our healthcare system: the dreaded patiëntenstop (patient freeze). Trying to get a rapid appointment with a completely new doctor here because yours is suddenly out of commission is akin to trying to win the lottery without actually buying a ticket. Every receptionist politely but firmly tells you, "Sorry, we are full. Kindly take your inflammation elsewhere." It was a true test of endurance, but I survived.
The other reason for my radio silence is honestly just a profound lack of inspiration. Life has been overwhelmingly... static. The European football season is pretty much done and dusted, which usually means I’d be obsessively gearing up for the World Cup. But for some bizarre reason, I just can't seem to muster an ounce of excitement for it.
Maybe it’s my age catching up with me. Maybe it’s the fact that the tournament is in the US, and the time zones will likely wreck my sleep schedule anyway. Maybe it's the heartbreaking realization that our Belgian national team just isn't the golden powerhouse it used to be. Or, frankly, maybe it’s the sheer dilution of quality that comes with expanding the tournament to a bloated 48 teams. We’re going to have group stage matches that look more like Sunday pub league friendlies than a clash of global football titans. Usually, my predictive betting models would be smoking by now, crunching numbers and spitting out probabilities. But right now? I haven't even bothered to set up a single fantasy league team. The animo is entirely missing. I suppose the fever might hit me once the opening whistle actually blows, but right now, I'm just shrugging at the whole affair.
Speaking of things that cause unnecessary headaches, let me tell you about my latest obsession. As if an inflamed neck and an impending house demolition weren't enough to occupy my remaining brain cells, I also decided to take a deep dive into the terrifying, labyrinthine world of my electricity bill. I suddenly had this burning desire to figure out exactly how every single euro and cent is calculated, and more importantly, whether I could replicate the entire administrative circus myself. Spoiler alert: this was exponentially harder than it sounds. After hours of wrestling with data, cross-referencing tariffs, and staring at numbers until my eyes blurred, I have it almost perfectly matched via an Excel spreadsheet. But it has become painfully obvious that Excel is just not cut out for this level of madness. The next logical step? I am just going to write a custom piece of software to do it for me. Because why make life simple when you can overcomplicate it with code?
Instead of football, my looming anxiety is currently firmly attached to the impending destruction of my house. In less than a month, our old kitchen is being violently ripped out to make way for a renovation. We are caught in that classic homeowner's paradox: absolutely dreading the chaos and dust, but desperately looking forward to the final result.
Of course, before the demolition crew arrives, we have some "fun" DIY tasks to take care of. The two darkest, dirtiest chores on my list are removing the massive indoor wood stove and hanging the new lighting in the living room. For the lights, I need to get them wired and hung before the painter arrives—ideally even sooner so I don't accidentally electrocute myself in front of an audience. As for the stove, it has to disappear before the kitchen tear-down begins. We aren't replacing it; instead, we are turning the space into a giant alcove. After carefully calculating the structural safety of ripping out a fireplace, I am now bracing myself for the sheer volume of black soot that is about to coat every single surface I own. Wish me luck.
And then, there is the approaching milestone. The big 5-0. I am looking forward to the party, but also viewing it with deep suspicion. Here is the context: a good friend of mine is turning 50 exactly four days after me. So, I casually reached out to our mutual friends to ask if we should secretly plan to decorate his house. For the uninitiated, "sieren" is a glorious local tradition where friends completely vandalize a 50-year-old’s front yard with embarrassing banners, giant inflatable dolls, and questionable photos.
Their response to my suggestion was incredibly dismissive. Almost too dismissive. I was told not to worry about it. Naturally, my finely tuned analytical brain immediately deduced what this means: I am also a target. I have practically signed my own decorative death warrant, and they are plotting my downfall as we speak. We shall see what monstrosities they erect on my lawn.
However, the universe did throw me one tiny bone. Because I was battling my neck-head inflammation during a previously scheduled vacation day, Belgian labor laws allowed me to claim that day back! I had totally forgotten about this administrative loophole. My lost vacation day was neatly restored, and I am strategically deploying it on the 19th—the exact day of my 50th birthday party. I will definitely need those extra 24 hours to mentally prepare for whatever my "friends" are planning. Or I can use it to guard my front lawn.
Finally, to end on a green note, I have been spending a lot of time working in the garden lately. Tomorrow, the heavy machinery arrives for the backyard. A massive area currently suffocating under a thick ground cover needs to be transformed into a pristine grass lawn. If you recall my previous adventures in yard work—hauling around hundreds of kilos of gravel in tiny bags and battling forests of stinging nettles with a brush cutter for hours on end—you might expect me to tackle this with my own two hands.
Nope. Not this time.
I took one look at that patch of ground cover, remembered my recently healed neck, and did the only sensible thing a man about to turn 50 can do: I hired professionals. I will be supervising them from the comfort of my living room, drinking coffee, and enjoying the fact that for once, I am not the one doing the heavy lifting.
Until next time, Hive! Keep your necks healthy and your front lawns safe.
Cheers,
Peter