Apple Watch Mindfulness

This past Christmas Pam got me an Apple Watch. I didn’t ask for it but she knew I would like it, and I do. It is especially helpful when you’re on a run, what with all of its health monitoring capabilities. The thing keeps track of my heart rate, blood pressure, pace, elevation change and even maps out my run for me. Pretty cool. But, the minute I strapped this baby on Christmas morning I immediately became aware that the people who are responsible for conceiving and building this devise…aren’t like you and me. I knew in an instant that these men and women probably all live in California, drive Teslas, and enjoy hot yoga. Not there’s anything wrong with that.

Every morning I get this message on my watch:

When you hit that open mindfulness button, you are instructed to reflect. Just in case you aren’t clear on what exactly you should reflect upon, it gives you this helpful hint:

After this reflection thing, you are then asked to concentrate on breathing, which sounds easy enough, but in the event that you’re the kind of person who doesn’t generally give breathing a whole lot of thought, these handy tips are helpful:

Again, absolutely nothing wrong with any of this stuff, it’s just that I’ve never been the type of guy who feels comfortable with anything that requires such blatant self-consciousness, not to mention the fact that softly touching my heart while breathing would bring back some rather horrible memories from a health scare I endured 20 years ago!

So every morning when all these self reflection prompts pop up on my Apple Watch, I hit the clear all button and get on with my day. For me, I don’t need a mindful moment to “decide how I want to be today”. Every day when I wake up, I want to be a good person, maybe slightly better than I was the day before. This was drilled into my head by my father, a man who believed that most of the horror and sinfulness in the world was a result of people far too obsessed with themselves and not nearly concerned about their neighbor. He would say that we should probably seek something more grand, more noble, more majestic to reflect upon than ourselves. Even the term, self-reflection, would for him be suspicious. But, he was a man born in a different time. A man who came of age in the Depression and spent his 19th birthday in a jungle in the New Hebrides Islands. Mindfulness would have been a foreign concept.

Here’s my question though, aimed at my tech-savvy readers. Is there a way to turn off these daily notifications?  That might be helpful.

The Queen is Dead

The queen of England has died at age 96. Her reign started six years before I was born. As queen she has presided over the unraveling and dismantlement of the British Empire. When she ascended to the throne, Great Britain was one of the three or four most consequential and powerful nations in the world. Today, it less resembles a powerful, influential nation than it does a museum piece. Yet, she remains more popular and beloved now than at perhaps any time over the past seven decades. The BBC churns out one show about the queen after another and we Americans watch with a mixture of fascination and confusion.

I would venture to say that there is a giant disconnect when it comes to attitudes towards the queen specifically and the British Royal family in general among men and women. I remember back when Prince Charles married Princess Diana. I had just graduated from college and was sharing an apartment with my sister Paula. I looked on in astonishment as Paula—along with every other woman I knew—sat there glued to the television watching the nuptials. Several decades later, I watched my wife eating her freshly made scones and tea while she watched Prince Harry marry that gold-digging American girl. For the life of me I will never understand.

I have to admit that the old girl held up nicely over the years. By all accounts, Elizabeth was a fine woman who conducted herself with grace and dignity and represented her country with devotion and integrity. But last night as I scrolled through the reactions to her death on social media I just had to laugh. One decidedly non-British commenter dramatically declared that she would, “Never forget where I was when I got the awful news!!” Wow.

I happened to be chatting on line with a baseball-loving buddy of mine when the subject of the queen came up…

Then he added this observation:

“I was more sad when my favorite bartender quit than literally anything that has ever happened to the royal family”

To which I responded:

“No Kidding! What about when the Nationals traded away Max and Trea on the same day?! Comparing that with the death of a 96 year old queen? No way!”

And that’s about the size of the chasm that exists between men and women on the subject of all things British Royal Family. However, I believe it possible to respectfully mourn the passing of an iconic figure of world history while at the same time being baffled by the outsized admiration people have for a family so shot through with degenerates, narcissists and ne’er-do-wells.

Perhaps with the promotion of the Prince of Wales to the throne, people all over the world will suddenly snap out of it and come to realize that royal blood is just like any other kind.

I Owe You Guys

So, sometimes I get readers who ask why I write about certain stuff or why I don’t write about other stuff. My answer is always, “I have no idea.” I write whatever pops into my head while drinking coffee in the mornings. It’s really no more complicated than that. But here lately several people have asked me why I stopped doing the dad joke thing. Well, for one thing, I wasn’t aware that I had stopped doing dad jokes. But upon further review, it turns out that I had stopped doing a lot of dad jokes. It wasn’t intentional. I guess while I was in Maine I didn’t feel the need to cheer myself up as much. That’s the purpose of dad jokes and always has been. When the stresses of life start getting overbearing, I look for something funny, preferably in a ridiculous sort of way. Well, there’s nothing funnier than a ridiculous dad joke, in my opinion. Now that I’m back in the real world with all of its uncertainty and anxiety, I’m back to searching the world over for the very worst, most ridiculous dad jokes I can find. Sometimes the search is fruitless. Just like sometimes when you go fishing you don’t catch anything. I’ve got to admit, I’ve burned up quite a lot of my valuable time to come up with what follows, so I sure hope you like them. Besides, it 

has been a while so I figured I owed you guys.

I recently bought a toilet brush.

Long story short, I’m going back to toilet paper.

My wife asked me if I had ever heard of Quasimodo.

I said, “the name rings a bell.”

Guy hears a knock on his door. He opens it and there’s a snail on the porch. He picks up the snail and throws it as far out into the yard as he can. Three years later the guy hears another knock, opens the door, and the same snail is back on his porch.

The snail says, “What the hell was that about?”

Its only a five minute walk from my house to my favorite bar, but strangely, it takes 25 minutes to walk home.

The difference is staggering.

I can’t stand people who take drugs.

…the TSA, for example.

What kind of exercise do lazy people do?

Diddly-squats.

Doctor: Do you want the good news or the bad news?

Patient: Tell me the good news.

Doctor: Alright. We’re going to name a disease after you.

What do pessimists and people with sausage phobias have in common?

They both fear the wurst.

This is a First For Me

Washington Nationals

Nationals Park

1500 South Capitol Street SE

Washington, DC 20003

Attn: MANAGER Dave Martinez

Dear Mr. Martinez,

It is not my habit to write letters to sports figures. In fact, despite a lifetime of devotion to Major League Baseball, this is my first. But I feel compelled to reach out to you now, not back in 2019 when our team was riding high, but now when we are in the midst of the mess that has become 2022.

I have watched the games with the frustration that comes with losing. I’ve watched ownership trade away our very best players over the past couple of years. I’ve seen the far less talented players who have replaced them struggle. I’ve watched the losses pile up. 

But through it all I have noticed two significant things that I wish to share with you, because I believe you need to hear this.

First, the guys you have been left with, the guys that you have been forced to go to war with every day are still playing hard. I have not seen one ounce of quit in anybody on this team. They grind, they compete, they play with enthusiasm and energy as if they were competing for the pennant. This is a testimony to their own professionalism, but it is also a reflection of their manager. You and your coaching staff deserve a lot of credit for the max effort we see every single game.

Secondly, I have watched dozens and dozens of your post game sessions with the press. I try to imagine what it would be like in my profession to have to answer questions from reporters after every bad day I had at work and can’t even fathom such a thing. Yet, you go out there, win or lose and answer every question with patience and grace. I never hear you throw a player or a coach under the bus. I never hear a single complaint about the hand you have been dealt by ownership. All I hear from you is an attempt to build up the confidence of your players. Even after an awful performance, you always find something positive to say on the player’s behalf.

In short, you have demonstrated for all of us how to conduct yourself with dignity and professionalism when everything is going south. Anyone can be positive and graceful while winning a World Series. It takes something special to do it while in last place.

So, thank you Dave Martinez, for giving us everything you’ve had this season. Thank you for having everyone’s back and for demonstrating class and integrity and demanding it from your players. Next year will be better. I’m sure of it.

Sincerely,

Doug Dunnevant

The Gift

Out of the blue a few days ago I get a text from my son that says, “I just bought you something!”. Then the next day he sends another text declaring, “Order shipped!! 9400111202557987878415…tracking number.” At this point I’m thinking, Dang…this must be something special what with him giving me the tracking number and all. What’s he up to?

My son doesn’t normally buy stuff for me. Sure, I get stuff for my birthday or Father’s Day but not just random stuff the last week of August. I mean, I’m intrigued at this point. I’m thinking that maybe he’s feeling sorry for me and my difficult readjustment to the business world. Maybe he’s worried about me, thinks I need a lift. Who knows? So when I find a package in the mailbox yesterday afternoon I got pretty excited. I ripped open the package and out tumbled this:

Now, I realize that probably 95% of you have no idea what this is, and even if I give you the following hint, you will still be clueless:

Candidly, I had never heard of Jack Vale. But it didn’t take me long to discover that this man has made it his life’s goal to rid the world of the plague of unrealistic sounding fart machines. Jack here surveyed the world around him, identified a problem that desperately needed solving and set about to solve it. To make it easier for me, my boy sent yet another text:

Then, to prove that last assertion, Patrick sent me a video with evidence which I have to say was quite impressive. Of course the last part of his text was a thinly veiled competitive challenge, so since yesterday afternoon I have been practicing and I can say without hesitation that its not nearly as easy as Jack Vale makes it look, but my technique is improving squeeze by squeeze. The Pooter has served as a much needed distraction, making it one of the most useful gifts I have received in quite some time.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking, especially the women in this audience. Something along the lines of, “What the heck??” Others might be trying to imagine what kind of father I had been to raise a son who would send him a gift like The Pooter. Still others might be feeling sympathy for Pam the next time the family gets together for a holiday, what with her husband and son going around making fart noises with two Pooters. Well, you’re forgetting Jon. My son-in-law will no doubt want in on this…so it will actually be three Pooters, but that is neither hear nor there. The point is that there is sure to be lots of feminine eye-rolling going on this Thanksgiving.

In the meantime, I have been gifted with the ultimate distraction fidget tool. It will be worth at least two appointments with a therapist. Plus it has given me reassurance that my work as a father was not a complete waste.

Grace Notes

This has been a rough week. Everyone has them. Maybe you’re having one too. Today will be long and stress-filled. Four appointments and a ton of calls to make. Hump day, they call it. Indeed. When you’re in the midst of a week like this it’s easy to lose sight of the little blessings of life, those grace notes that slip through the dreariness and help light your way. Here’s one that happened Monday afternoon.

Every year when we go to Maine we always buy little gifts for the kids next door. One of them, Kennedy, is especially artistic, so this year we found this really cool origami kit that came with everything needed to make origami flowers of all kinds. Pam thought it would be perfect for her so she bought it.

Monday was the first day of school. Around 5:30 or so the front door bell rang and there was Kennedy with the most adorable smile on her face. She had a flower in her hand and extended it to me. “This is for you. It’s a poppy.”

She then proceeded to tell me all about how she made it and how much fun it was, and that there were plenty of other flowers she is going to make. I asked her how her first day of school went and her face lit up. “My teacher is really nice. She says that her classroom is her kingdom and when she wants to get our attention she says, “Hear Ye, Hear Ye!” And we all have to say together, “Long Live the Queen”.

The entire encounter was over with in fifteen minutes. She went back to playing in her front yard with some other kids and I went back to whatever it was I was doing. But now, as I worry about what this day will bring, I look at Kennedy’s flower that Pam placed in a little blue vase and it makes me smile.

Sometimes the way we cope with difficulty is by stopping to appreciate the simply things. Things that are lovely, sweet and true.

Thanks, Ken

Coping With Stress in 2022

My profession comes with mountains of stress, the kind that never goes away. It is hard to measure or quantify. There are times when it feels greater and more debilitating than others, but it never ever leaves. When I was younger I seldom thought about stress. Of course back then I had fewer clients with far less invested. The stakes weren’t as high. As I have gotten older and the business has grown stress is much more front and center. I am consciously aware of it’s presence at all times. To cope with it I have developed strategies to manage the stress, most of them without even realizing what I was doing. It is only in retrospect that I have come to realize what these coping strategies are.

What are my symptoms? What does stress do to me? Lots of things actually. Over the years I have experienced debilitating headaches, dealt with migraines for several years. Thankfully, those days are largely behind me. I have had bouts of insomnia, still do at times. I’ve experienced digestive issues with no known physical cause. There are other physical symptoms that I will leave out of this discussion. On the psychological side of the equation, there are seasons of great doubt. I doubt my own skill and abilities, despite a 40 year record of relative success. There are occasional and thankfully brief periods of intense fear, some of it irrational. It always passes, but each episode leaves a mark. I have managed these stress related symptoms privately. I have always considered them as part of the price of admission for work in my chosen field of endeavor. While, as a younger man, I could shake it all off by listening to a motivational speaker or watching a ballgame, once I reached my late 50’s, none of the old tricks worked any longer.

It occurs to me that one of the coping mechanisms I developed was…Maine. While Pam and I have always gone to Maine for a week or so every summer for over 38 years, it was seven years ago when we began to go for four weeks at a time. In 2016 I made the unilateral decision to rent a house on Hobbs Pond for an entire month. Since that year we have stayed for even longer stretches of time during the summer and fall. In 2022, by the time we are finished, we will have spent eight weeks in Maine. Although I truly enjoy our time there, what I have come to realize is that a big part of me needs longer and longer stays. Time in Maine disconnected from the grind allows everything to heal. The tension built up over months and months slowly drains out of the system.

But even with eight weeks in Maine, that leaves the other 44 weeks. The single hardest thing about my work is that I find it nearly impossible to close everything down, to turn off the part of my brain that thinks and ponders and second guesses the decisions of the day. I said nearly impossible. There is one thing that I have found that works. there is one thing I can do which always sweeps work thoughts away.

Writing.

Over the past decade I have written over 2,650 posts on this blog. I have written over two dozen short stories, and as of a month ago, four novels. It isn’t my job. Although lots of people read this blog, only a handful of people have ever read any of my novels or short stories. So I must ask myself why I spend so much time writing. The answer should have been self evident to me long before now, but I suppose self-deception is the easiest kind. The reason I write so much is because when I’m writing, everything else gets blocked out. Work concerns vanish into thin air once your mind wraps itself around the creation of a story. So, for me, writing is an effective mental health therapy. Maine is an effective mental health therapy. Even though eight weeks in Maine is awfully pricey therapy, writing costs me nothing.