Back in grad school, I shared a house with some guys in Virginia Beach.

Two floors, five dudes, and somehow everyone clicked. Each evening, we watched sporting events together.

One of my roommates, Ted, was an eclectic guy we all loved. He had a knack for saying the wildest things, without even trying. A walking soundbite. It grew so consistently hilarious that another roommate started a document of his best quotes.

Thus emerged the legendary “Book of Ted”: a sacred text of hot takes, accidental wisdom, and absurd opinions. That was 30 years ago.

Recently, I caught up with an old roomie. “Still have the book,” he told me. I’m hoping for a copy soon.

Today I heard a one-liner that felt worthy of that collection — from a Harris Teeter cashier.

A sweet girl, probably in high school, scanned my pizza, paused, then reached for paper instead of plastic and said:

“Pizza just hits better in a paper bag.”

Completely deadpan.

It was so random, so perfectly odd, that I laughed out loud. And immediately thought of Ted.

Yes, his spirit lives on. There’s a new philosopher in town, and she works by aisle 10, near the frozen foods.

I was winning.

In Mrs. Hunter’s 3rd grade class, my name sat at the top of the leaderboard. The contest? Who could read the most books during the school year.

This was my wheelhouse. Even as a kid, I devoured books. My parents fed the habit, buying me any I wanted. The highlight of my week was the Scholastic Book Club, a magical little catalog that was basically Amazon before Amazon, full of titles you could order right from your desk.

With a few months left, I was comfortably in the lead. In a distant second place was my friend, Michelle. A strong rival, but I wasn’t worried. No sweat.

And then one day, everything changed. Mr. Vines, our principal, walked in and dropped the bomb: “Because of classroom sizes, we’ve got to transfer some of you to a new room.”

And just like that, they reassigned me to a first-year teacher named Mrs. Sox. Different teacher. Different rules. No book contest.

When my name vanished from the rankings, I argued my case, but it was no use. Weeks later, Michelle claimed the prize to great fanfare. Brutal.

Ah, core memories.

To this day, I’m still a rabid reader. But I’ve developed a frustrating habit: I juggle too many at once. Right now, it’s a 1,000-page fantasy doorstopper, a marketing guide, and two histories — all in rotation.

I also have a daily The Wall Street Journal addiction. Paper copy only.

Come to think of it, I’m reading like I’m angry. Mr. Vines, you did this to me.

In high school, my friends and I chased hot air balloons across town.

Every May, our local “Balloon Festival & Air Show” filled the sky with color. Dozens of huge inflatables drifted above us, from the Burger King Whopper to a grinning Mr. Peanut.

As they descended, pilots hunted for open fields, never quite sure where they’d land. That was our cue.

We’d pile into a car, choosing one balloon to track through backroads, craning our necks to keep it in sight. Sometimes we followed for miles, laughing at our frantic turns, determined to be there when it touched down.

It was pure, free fun — just the thrill of the pursuit.

Lately, with the weather warming up, Jess and I have started a new tradition. We call it Chasing Sunsets. About 45 minutes before sundown, we drive to a nearby beach, spread a towel, and watch the sun melt into the horizon.

There’s something peaceful about ending the day with sand between our toes and the surf lapping at our feet. Our summer goal is to catch at least 25 sunsets.

Tonight was Sunset #2.

If you see our car pulling out in the early evening, you’ll know we’re off on the adventure. With a giant, glowing fireball in the sky, who needs Mr. Peanut?

On my 40th birthday, I couldn’t believe what showed up in my driveway.

My friends had hinted at something but refused to spill the details. All they said was, “Be ready at 5PM, dressed for a date.”

Right on time, a sleek limo arrived. The driver swung open the doors and announced our destination: the Williamsburg Inn, a swanky spot 30 minutes away.

That night, Jess and I rode — and dined — like royalty. Our friends covered everything, making it an evening to remember.

Fast forward a few years to this weekend's birthday meal. We chose a cozy countryside restaurant, tucked inside an old house about half an hour away.

As we ate, two long-lost friends appeared at our table. We caught up and told them we were celebrating my special day. It was a sweet reunion, and they left a few minutes later.

At the end of our meal, dessert came — unordered. “From your friends,” the server said. “And… they took care of dinner, too.”

We stared at each other, stunned.

A random encounter, another act of birthday kindness.

The night would never end.

Back in my Boy Scout days, I jumped at a challenge to earn an exclusive merit badge. The mission? Get dropped alone in the woods for a solo overnight. Game on.

When the weekend arrived, a pickup truck hauled me out under the stars. My supplies: a sleeping bag, one sad slice of bread, and two hard-boiled eggs. The instructions were simple: Stay put. If you wander, we might not find you tomorrow.

Well, alrighty then.

I zipped into my bedding, tossed the eggs into the darkness (no thanks), and spent the evening wide-eyed. Not a single blink of sleep. Just the creeping shadows and watching the moon crawl across the sky. Somehow, I survived.

Fast-forward to today: my outdoor adventure was much more pleasant.

Jess and I (with our golden retriever, Cali) hiked the Bassett Trace Nature Trail. Since volunteers have labeled all the foliage, it’s like walking through a living field guide. Think bubbling brooks, wooden bridges, and dirt paths.

No merit badge earned, but a lot less stressful.

Sometimes, growth means choosing scenery over survival.