My wife thought it was sad when I told her I used to play board games by myself as a kid

I received the Happy Days board game one Christmas in the late 70s. More often than not when I played it, I was by myself.

Growing up, I had a core group of friends with whom I used to spend a lot of time. In the summers, especially, we did a lot of stuff together.

But even when you're 9 years old and your options are somewhat limited, there are still times when you're not with your friends and you have to figure out how to amuse yourself.

The child psychologists call this "independent play," my oldest daughter informs me, and it's a skill I developed pretty early as the youngest (by far) of four siblings. I was rarely bored.

One of the things I used to do was to take one of the several board games I owned down from the shelf in my room and play it by myself.

Even if the game was designed for four players, I would put four pieces on the board, roll the dice, and take each piece's turn individually.

Amazingly, I never told Terry about this until recently. I say "amazingly" because I've known the woman for nearly 39 years and figured I had absolutely exhausted my childhood stories (and adulthood stories, for that matter) with her.

But apparently this had never come up before. When I mentioned it, she at first laughed, then she got a pitying look on her face, which was worse than the laughing.

She even took to our family text group chat to let the kids know their father had been a sad, lonely little boy who was forced to engage in multiplayer board games by himself for lack of friends.

But as I explained to the kids, it wasn't like that at all. It was just one of the things I did to amuse myself whenever Matt, Kevin, Jason, Todd, Mike or any of my other Harding Drive/Mapledale Road compatriots were unavailable.

The sad thing is, I now appear to have lost this ability. I'm typing this blog post on a Saturday night in our living room, only because I have completely finished today's (and most of tomorrow's) to-do list and wasn't sure what to do with myself.

Maybe it's time for a little solo Monopoly!

You wake up one day and realize you've been sent back to the 80s...now what?

I'm a nostalgic guy who looks back fondly on his younger years.

The music to which I listen is one example of this. I have many modern/semi-current tracks in my library, and I try to listen to new stuff all the time, but there's no denying that my tastes lean very heavily toward the 1980s.

For every Harry Styles song I own, you'll find 30 by The Police, 25 by Men at Work, 20 by Duran Duran, and heck, probably five by Kajagoogoo.

I follow quite a few retro 80s accounts on Twitter because I enjoy the cultural memories they feature. One of those accounts recently posted a question that caught my interest: If you woke up one day and realized you had been transported back to the 80s, what would you do?

If you are younger than 33, the first thing you would do is wonder why you had been sent to a time before you were even born.

But if you are 53 like me, this becomes something to ponder. If I was sent back in time 40 years, and if, let's say, I was only allowed to stay there a few hours before returning to the present, what would be my priorities?

Here are the five things I would probably do:

(1) Sit and talk with my mom and dad (and if they happen to be visiting, my sisters and brother): Kids, once your parents are gone, you can't believe the things you would do to see them again. They would wonder why 13-year-old me had suddenly taken such a deep interest in having a protracted conversation with them, but it would be amazing. The first thing I would do is walk into the living room and talk with them.

(2) Head to the arcade: I would have to spend at least a half hour at Galaxy Gardens, our local game room. I expended untold amounts of time and money there and it was wonderful. I could do without people smoking indoors like they used to, but hey, that's the price you pay for the privilege of time travel.

(3) Turn on the TV: It wouldn't take long to cruise through the 36 channels we had from Continental Cablevision, so I would stop at MTV and watch some of those classic music videos when they were still fresh and new.

(4) Round up my friends: This would involve actually going to their houses and/or calling their landlines (gasp!), but any combination of Matt, Kevin, Jason, Mike, Todd, etc. I could rouse would be worth the effort. Even if we just headed down to the railroad tracks and hung out (it was much more fun than it sounds, believe me).

(5) Enjoy the freedom of being without a smartphone: I could easily do this now by simply leaving my phone at home, but it wouldn't be quite the same. There was something appealing about a world in which you were mostly unreachable most of the time and everyone was OK with that. As miraculous as the iPhone is as a technological innovation, it also comes with hidden shackles I wouldn't mind shedding for a few hours.

HONORABLE MENTION: 1983 was three years before I started dating Terry, so I might ride my bike to Robert Street on the other end of Wickliffe and see if I could catch a glimpse of her at home. This sort of stalking was frowned upon even then, however, so it might also lead to me spending a few hours in an early-80s jail cell.

I now have a lawn mowing guy and a snow plow guy, and I feel spoiled

For 30 years, I cut my own grass and shoveled the snow out of my driveway. Neither of these things is my favorite chore, but it was a point of pride that I did them myself.

Now someone else does them, and I'm not sure what to think.

It started last November when I was out shoveling the aftermath of the first snowstorm of the season. A guy drove up in a plow truck and asked if I wanted to hire him to clear our driveway for the winter.

His name was (and still is, for that matter) Jason. I asked how much he charged. He asked what I thought was fair. It turns out he normally does only commercial snow removal, but he was going to be in the neighborhood regularly to clear his mom's driveway anyway and could do mine whenever needed.

I told him he had a deal and I would get back to him on the going rate for residential driveways our size.

It was one of those mild winters where the plow guy comes out way ahead financially vs. the number of times he actually needs to clear the snow, but I didn't care. Jason is reliable and does a thorough job. I'm willing to pay a premium for that kind of service.

Yet...each time he came, there was a part of me that would watch him through the living room window and think, "What am I, 90 years old? I should be out there doing that myself. I don't need a plow guy."

Which I realize is dumb, but I was so used to me and/or the kids shoveling the snow that having a non-family member do it seemed strange.

Now fast forward to this past spring. I had some extra money from my PA announcing work. I knew my least favorite part of the time period from, say, April through October was cutting the grass. I saw a few landscapers advertising on our local community Faecbook page, so I reached out to one who had good reviews.

His name is Nick. He came over and assessed our yard and told me he could cut the grass, edge/trim and clean everything up once a week for $50 a pop. It takes me a little more than an hour of concerted effort to mow our half-acre lot, so this felt like a pretty good deal.

Now Nick comes every Monday to take care of my grass. I see him out there doing a nice job and I think to myself, "This is great! I love not having to worry about it anymore. I should have done this years ago. Of course, the fact that I've given it up also makes me a wuss."

I cannot escape this way of thinking. This idea that asking for help – even hiring help – is some sign of weakness. It makes no sense, but then many things that run through my brain these days make no sense.

Speaking of which, Terry and I have a strange mental block when it comes to remembering Nick's name. At various times (this is true), we have referred to him as Jason, Josh, Ryan and Kyle, in addition to this actual name.

Maybe I really am 90 years old.