It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

And one of the most fun.

In college, my buddies and I met some guys in Athens, GA. We hit it off immediately, and soon we found ourselves invited on a mysterious adventure the following weekend. Curious, we agreed — because that’s exactly what students do.

Late that next Saturday night, we showed up at the rendezvous point, under cover of darkness. Their pickup truck sat at the bottom of a bridge, wires stretching upward like some DIY daredevil operation.

It turned out to be a homemade zip line. Surely illegal. But who thinks about rules when you’re young?

After climbing to the top, I strapped into their makeshift harness, connected myself to the cable, and, with a final breath, plunged into the blackness below.

Safety never crossed my mind. Neither did consequences.

I didn’t escape uninjured, though. Gripping the rope with gloves to slow down, I misjudged the stop. The friction seared my wrist, leaving a second-degree burn that required weeks of daily clinic visits.

Still, looking back, I’d do it again. Dumb? Absolutely. Worth every reckless second? Without a doubt.

Why did this memory surface? Because this week I read about Evel Knievel, one of my childhood heroes. This dude straddled his Harley-Davidson and jumped buses, fountains, and a shark-filled tank. Even buckled himself into a rocket to soar across a canyon.

Sure, he broke nearly every bone in his body, but the crashes only deepened his icon status.

I’m glad to say I had my own Evel moment.

Except he had a Harley. I just got rope burn.

We had to do it once a day in elementary school.

Swish.

A noun — and also, unfortunately, a verb.

Around mid-morning, the teacher gave the dreaded announcement, “It's time for Swish.” Groans would fill the classroom as little paper cups traveled down each row.

Then came the strange, greenish liquid, poured carefully into each cup. The adults called it fluoride. But to us, it was torture.

The teacher would glance at her watch and yell, “Go!”

And we had to swish Swish for 30 long seconds, then spit it back into the cup. Simple in theory. Terrible in execution.

Without fail, someone would always snort-laugh, sending a geyser of Swish erupting from their nose. On the other side of the room, another kid would accidentally swallow some and immediately gag, triggering a dramatic vomit. Every. Single. Day.

Those poor teachers deserved medals. Or therapy. Eventually, the program ended due to logistical nightmares and parent complaints.

Then there were the dye tablets. A sadistic experiment where we chewed pills that turned plaque neon red, exposing our bad brushing habits to the entire class. Public dental shaming at its finest. I'm still processing this trauma.

Recently, I read an article about toothbrushes and oral hygiene, and memories of Swish flooded back.

For instance:

• Brushing for 2 minutes is recommended, but most people only manage 45 seconds.

• Blue is the most popular toothbrush color.

• Some people actually skip brushing altogether on weekends.

So excuse me while I go scrub my teeth. At least no one’s forcing me to swish green goo on a timer anymore.

Today, I went to the grocery store for a special item.

A few years ago, I wouldn’t have touched the stuff. Why would I? It held zero appeal.

But everything changed when a friend made me try it. One time turned into two, and now… well, I have a new habit.

Here are some clues:

• Invented in the 1950s and is still going strong

• Comes in many forms

• There are endless variations

• The military uses a lightweight version

• The options change with the seasons

What am I talking about?

Coffee creamer.

That’s right. I trekked to Harris Teeter to prep for tomorrow’s cup of Joe. Funny thing is, I didn’t even drink coffee until my mid-thirties. I loved the smell but thought it tasted like sadness.

Then I discovered the magic ratio: creamer + medium roast. After some experimenting, I’m now the classic cup-in-the-morning kind of guy.

To celebrate my successful store run, I poured myself a mug this afternoon — with a little French vanilla, because why not?

Bottoms up. Somewhere, my past self is sipping water and judging me.

I’ve always enjoyed podcasts, even when they were a hassle.

Back in the Stone Age, this meant manually downloading episodes from a computer (with a cord) to my iPod.

Then I’d hook that device up to a cassette adaptor thingy so it could play through my car speakers. During my commute, I listened to hundreds of sermons, interviews, and one of my favorites… a discussion about theories from the Lost tv show.

4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42.

If that sequence means anything to you: you’re welcome, fellow nerd.

These days, I’m still tuning into new content.

Recently, a show taught me two interesting ideas:

• Songs often end on a major chord — it feels resolved, like a happy ending.

• In storytelling, protagonists have to act — no one else can steal their moment, or the plot flops.

Learning never gets old, but my cassette adapter sure did.

And, yes, I’m still wondering what Lost was actually about.

It’s been nearly fifteen years since I watched a children’s show.

And honestly, I don’t miss most of them. Some even killed a few brain cells. Ahem, Teletubbies.

But when your children ask you to sit and join them, you do it. Back then, these series dominated our TV:

• Arthur

• Caillou

• Clifford the Big Red Dog

• The Berenstain Bears

• The Wiggles

• The Doodlebops

• Dragon Tales

• The Magic School Bus

And then, LazyTown, my favorite. Also, a special shout-out to Phineas and Ferb. Two of the rare programs that didn’t make me want to stick something sharp in my eye.

But the kids have grown up and suddenly I'm left behind. The old has gone, the new has come. And lately, I’ve noticed folks raving about Bluey.

First, I listened to a podcast that mentioned it, then I read that the Bluey empire is valued at $2 billion. Wait—what?! Apparently, even parents and grandparents are hooked, willingly viewing episodes and attending live performances.

When I learned the show’s creator draws stories directly from his own family, curiosity finally got the better of me. So, this week, I took the plunge. Yep… a grown adult, alone, watching Bluey.

And I really enjoyed it. I laughed several times. Credit to the writer for perfectly capturing the joy and quirks of life with little ones.

Plus, it sure beats having “Fruit Salad, Yummy Yummy” stuck in my head. Hey, future grandkids, I’m ready for ya.