Rest days, work days, and the Sabbath

Weeks don’t end, they loop.

I prefer working on weekends. 

Perhaps it’s the contrarian in me. I enjoy having free time on weekdays and working on Saturday. It’s certainly not respecting the sabbath. But today I ran through a bunch of necessary items for my apartment renovation. Lighting, mainly. Also contemplating a particular business situation. 

This gym session, I missed my bench press again. I’ve now missed it 4x in a row. After 3x, it suggests I deload. I did not deload. I should have deloaded. 

It turns out that the body decreases strength gains when it is too intensely stimulated. If you’re not increasing gains, you might benefit from another rest day, not another gym day. This is tough for me. So a program where I can still go to the gym, just at a lower level of intensity, is good. Better. Preferable. 

I’m learning about my body. Learning about intensity and how not to injure myself. Learning the value of pushing myself, but also the value of relaxing and resting. 

I like this style. I like this growth. I like this muscle. 

I can currently bench press 185lbs for 3 reps. When I can bench press my bodyweight, I will benchpress Partner. I might only be 12 weeks away. How nice it is to have a long-term goal. 

Humans experience beautiful variation. I like working on Saturdays and Sundays, and prefer taking some weekday afternoons off to compensate. Plenty of people (most, even) prefer the typical workweek. Maturity is a process of learning yourself. Plus I can get a pickleball court without waiting for 45 minutes. And weekday lunch specials / theater tickets are delish!

Then again, one friend of mine stays up until ~5am, then sleeps til the afternoon. He thinks it’s healthy. In his case, I disagree. 

The Bounty Hunter

On Tuesday, a friend told me they wanted to fire their therapist and felt uncomfortable about it. I asked how much they pays the therapist, and they said $350 a week. I offered them a deal: you give me a hundred dollars and I’ll send an email that fires your therapist. They laughed, then I said, “And the best part: then I’ll give you a hundred dollars back. So you get to have no therapist, and a hundred dollars!”

They said that they would go home and fire the therapist and that they wouldn’t come back to the office (we share a coworking space) until they fired him. 

For two days, I didn’t see her, which surprised me. 

Then on Friday, they text me saying:

  • “Okay, I have like 90% succeeded at firing my therapist, I am going to count that as enough success to return to the office today. I technically need to send a follow up email on Sunday confirming that today will have been my final session as we agreed I would think about it over the weekend but the groundwork is clear.“

I had thought she was joking! 

I find this very funny. Not only due to the amusing structure of someone wanting to fire their therapist but feeling unable to because they don’t want to hurt their therapist’s feelings (which is already funny). Not only due to the amusing financial machinations (paying for another session this week – at $350 – when I’m pretty damn sure the whole point of that session was to cancel), which is itself the sort of thing that a therapist should help someone upskill but apparently this therapist does not (lol at therapy financial incentives). But also due to the self-inflicted rule that was clearly some sort of self-enforced punishment to mandate a behavior, but which was quite possibly not good for anyone as it prevented them from working from their ideal location despite no meaningful connection between working from my living room and firing their therapist. 

Games played

I realized today what my job is: I’m a bounty hunter! I establish bounty-based contracts with people for achieving specific ends (often paired with a small retainer). I’ve now signed one agreement to this effect, with a ~70% chance of another coming in the next week. So far, I have happy clients. Now, ‘tis time for me to deliver. 

If only that friend had paid me the $100: she’d’ve saved $250 ($350 if she wanted the $100 back), and we’d both be better off. 

Too much insufficient conflict 

I realized today that the amount of conflict in a relationship does not necessarily align with the quality of the relationship. 

One of my game-playing buddies is a high-conflict person. The two of us have a high-conflict relationship. (I bet he has a high-conflict relationship with everyone.) 

Another is a low-conflict person. I have never seen him in conflict with someone else. 

I enjoy playing games with each of them. 

Some family dinnertables are full of raised voices and spirited debate. 

Others are calm and gentle. 

Today I played a single game with both of those people: one on my left, the other on my right. Low-conflict on my left, High-conflict on my right. 

Mid-sentence, I caught myself code-switching. High-conflict person will make some super aggressive claim. I’ll tell him, “That’s insane. You should have done it this way instead.” Then I turn to low-conflict and ask calmly – like a kindergarten teacher: “What would you do differently?” 

High-conflict can get to truth faster, in an engineering sort of way. Low-conflict is more rejuvenating. High-conflict is the storm; low-conflict is the calm after. 

My main dissatisfaction with relationships stems from wanting high-conflict when it’s low-conflict, or vice-versa. And a specific relationship is not always best in a single state. Sometimes I’ll get annoyed at Partner for nitpicking something I say (implying she’s higher conflict than I desire at that moment). At other times, I’ll say to her, “I”m feeling spicy. Let’s fight about something” (I want more conflict than the moment is giving). Monty Python even has a line pertinent to the topic: a man enters an argument clinic to purchase an argument. In the middle of the argument, he says, “I don’t want to argue about that.” (at 3:22 in this sketch)

Most of my social dissatisfaction stems from wanting more conflict (feeling bored) or less conflict (feeling drained). 

As the Buddha would say, one must accept the conflict. Even the conflict containing insufficient conflict containing too much conflict, containing…? 

Yes, even the self-possessing recursion, spiraling ever downward. 

Against Middlemen 

My project manager/apartment designer sent me on a wild goose chase because he likes pretty things and I like money. 

I left his office at 3:45pm. Partner & I walked the 20 minutes to the lighting showroom for our 4:45 appointment. It was hot. Partner was grumpy due to lack of food (an all-liquid diet will do that to you, especially if you make the mistake of giving away your protein shake). At 4:15pm, my designer texted to cancel: see, the showroom closes at 5pm, so what about a meeting on Thursday? I told him tomorrow (Wednesday) is good but Thursday is no good. See: we have an appointment with my designer’s boss on Thursday, and I really want the lighting nailed down before then. Partner has already designed a new lighting package, so this whole experience of look-at-this-new-lighting-package feels like a wild goose chase to me anyway. It’s all because my designer wants no visible flange around my lights, while I want 1.5% of a million-dollar farm upstate

Having already walked to the showroom (and being an impish sort of fellow), I entered anyway. After a 5-minute wait, I spotted the same saleswoman who had previously helped me. I asked her about the 4:45pm meeting. She said there never had been a 4:45pm meeting. 

Aha. 

I asked her if she had designed the new lighting package that my designer mentioned. She said yes. 

Me: “Could we schedule an appointment for tomorrow? Any time after 1pm.” 

Saleswoman: “Sure: I’m wide open anytime from 1pm. And you’re my top priority.”

Me: “Could you send me the product list and spec sheets ahead of time so I can research them?” 

Saleswoman: “We can only send it to your designer.”

Me: “That dramatically decreases the likelihood we will buy lights from you.” 

Saleswoman: “Sorry, it’s store policy.” 

When I shared this experience with Partner, she laughed and said wedding plans often have a password, to avoid e.g. the mother of the bride changing things. 

“That’s fair enough,” I said. “But I’m the bride!” 

I’ve heard it’s reasonably common in German culture for someone experiencing consumer anguish of this sort to say something like, “But I’m paying you money!” And maybe it’s my German genes, but that’s my natural response! 

If you’re not going to share your information with me, I won’t give you my money! I already am disinterested in the fact that you charge $20k for something that I could nearly mimic for $7k. And now you’re not going to share MY INFORMATION with me? It’s like a HIPAA violation, but for lighting showrooms! 

I emailed my designer. I started the conversation by requesting that he only tell me meetings are booked when they actually are booked. (Shots fired.) 

It’s even more frustrating because I don’t mind the flange. 

In reality, a small issue. The demolition on my apartment started yesterday, and is going swimmingly. The meeting with my designer and the owner of the contracting company went well. This is just one small drop in a sea of good news. 

And anyway, not giving them my money is the best revenge

Musing on Connective Tissue

Imagine 10 or 100 people describe you, and their descriptions become a word cloud. Now take your word cloud, and compare it to other people’s.

Would we find that the people you spend time with have similar word clouds — similar descriptors, similar nouns about them? Does your cloud sit close to the clouds of the people near you? If so, in what ways alike, and in what ways different? (That’s graphing friend groups or political links in n-dimensional space according to personal traits, as a word cluster of noun descriptors of the person: clustering by cloud similarity and then drawing lines between the points based on social or political ties.)

My bet: people befriend and connect based on proximity. But the friend network is different than the leader. The map of who we like is not the map of who leads us.

Maybe “Yalie” is a noun about you, and a bunch of the people around you are also Yalies. Maybe most of the people you spend time with are quite tall — about the same height. But what about groups with diversities of traits instead: An office might cluster around Yalies but diversify by role: one person described “HR,” one described “accounting,” one described “CEO.” Some friend groups are all CEOs; other circumstances produce diversity. How does that work in an office? In politics? 

I wonder what they’d learn about politics. Is the most successful politician of a group the person who overlaps most with the rest of the group? I wouldn’t think the leader is necessarily the person with the most words overlapping others (because that person might miss a key trait, e.g. the desire to lead). Maybe the person who is friends with everybody is the one with the most in common with everybody. Or maybe the leader’s lowest commonality is higher than anybody else’s lowest (i.e. “The leader is nobody’s stranger.”). It’s got to be more complicated than that, depending on the group structure and incentives and the outsized impact of specific traits like desire for power.

Why I’ve been thinking about this: in a group that I interacted with today, the leader shares the most traits with the other group members. Each bloc shares one of her dimensions. Thinking about the descriptors of these different people and how she ended up being president: she is the person all of these different groups can agree on.

But often the leader of a group is not the leader because they have much in common with everybody, but because they plan things. That’s an interesting difference. The leader of a friend group is not the one most overlapping with others but more likely the one who organizes the events. In her case, part of it is she makes the thing happen — the leadership thing. This differs from the second-in-command, who doesn’t organize people, just makes the wheels run. Doing isn’t organizing.

Does anybody map social groups this way? A thing I’d be curious about: how do the friend network and the leader differ? The mapping half is studied — sociologists call it homophily. The gap between who connects and who leads is the fresher question.

Games Played

The writers missed out by failing to name it, “The Devil Wears Prada 2: The Devil Still Wears Prada.”

The 12 Steps: Not Just for Addicts

Why should addicts get all the healing? 

I went to an AA meeting once to see what the fuss was about. A friend was going and invited me along. (It turns out the only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking. I drank for a few years in college, then realized I didn’t like alcohol, so I came along as a member.) The meeting piqued my curiosity but didn’t resonate with me. 

A few years later, I attended another Anonymous meeting of a different type. (A different friend was going.) Then a third type, another few years later. 

It’s shocking to me that the most impactful solution we have to a whole family of physical addictions is psycho-socio-communal-spiritual. That is to say: Alcohol is physically addictive. Why does making amends with other people help heal that addiction? 

The best doctors don’t treat symptoms. They treat causes. Addiction is self-medication. Anonymous meetings and the 12 steps work on that level. 

I don’t buy that you have to do every step of the 12 steps in order. If order were mandatory, I wouldn’t do them at all. I think each step has a key trait (or traits) that, when satisfied, does the healing. Ben Franklin did a moral inventory before AA was ever invented. 

Today I started my step 4 personal inventory. I spent 45 minutes jotting up areas in my life in which I feel angry and unable to let that anger go. I’m “hung up on it”, as the kids in 1972 might say. 

This is to say I’ve admitted I have a problem (just not in that way). A set of problems. A set of regrets that pop into my mind and which cause me to psychologically spasm with deep and profound regrets. 

So, without any obvious addiction that’s sent me to rock bottom, I’d like to do the steps. Specifically step 4 and step 8. 

Step 4: “Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” 

Step 8: “Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.”

I think that, to do step 8, I may also need to do part of step 5 (“Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.” [I’m not sure the God part is important. The self and other human may be.]) 

16 months ago, I noticed something I felt a profound regret about. I jotted up a letter to that person in an attempt to mimic these steps (well, technically sending the letter is step 9). I shot it their way. They responded positively. I feel much better now. 

Today, I took step 1. Er, step 4. I skipped step 1. I’ll be the first to admit that’s not a problem.

Performance-Enhancing Drugs Are Fundamentally Good

Chemicals don’t care what you call them.

Performance-enhancing drugs are great. They enhance performance, and isn’t enhanced performance good? 

Look: today I felt grumpy. So Partner grabbed me a pearl tea: sugar, plus a substance the Olympics banned until 2004. Twenty minutes later I was up and rolling, knocking out work I’d been avoiding for three weeks. It got me thinking.

The classifications we give – food vs supplement vs medication vs drug vs illegal drug – are not chemically meaningful. If you eat the vitamin C that’s in an orange, that’s called eating an orange. If you take the same amount of vitamin C in pill form, that’s called taking a supplement. Yet we think about these very differently. The exact same chemical process that ten years ago was called doing drugs is now called “doctor-prescribed medication for sleep” (cannabis). 

Why does our society (all societies?) have these classifications? We want to restrict some behaviors: for the safety of others, for the safety of the individual, or for reasons that aren’t about safety at all.

The biggest not-about-safety category is purity: questions of what a human is, and what appropriate human behavior looks like. So what’s with the obsession with purity?

I’m reminded of a lawyer who built a Supreme Court practice by soliciting: He would identify cases the Court might take, contact the potential plaintiffs to inform them of their potential case, and end up arguing before the Justices. Chief Justice John Roberst pooh-poohed this: “If I’m going to have heart-bypass surgery, I wouldn’t go to the surgeon who calls me up.” 

But actually, wouldn’t you? Let’s run the thought experiment. A surgeon approaches you out of nowhere: “Based on the shape of your face, I know that you have obstructive sleep apnea. I’m a medical doctor. I studied at this school. I’m not some quack making things up: here are the rigorous scientific tests you can take to verify what I’m telling you. And get a second opinion, if you like.” I would think: that’s excellent.

In fact, this is roughly what happened to me before my jaw surgery. After six doctors’ worth of searching, I found Dr. Christian Guilleminault – one of the founders of the field of obstructive sleep apnea, since passed. While he hadn’t found me on the street, his diagnosis was as unsolicited as they come. He looked at my face and said: “I can tell by the shape of your face that you were a rambunctious child.”

What a funny thing to say! 

He followed it up with, “We will send you in for the lab tests, of course, but I already know what they will say.” He then predicted the results, which aligned perfectly when the tests came back a few months later. That’s the doctor I want to hire! 

So much of our restriction runs on purity. But purity is not itself good for the individual. Purity puts the individual into a particular game — a game they can win only by behaving in one specific way, and a game they never asked to play.

The purity game is about packaging. Take virginity, the archetype of purity: a woman who is chaste, who follows the virginal pathway, receives adulation for it. There are other pathways to adulation. Purity just happens to be the lowest common denominator (for women in a specific slice of society). 

I drastically prefer informed consent. The biggest danger with performance-enhancing drugs — with drugs, period — is the unknown unknowns. You have to know and understand not only the limitations of the drug itself, but the limitations of our knowledge about the drug. We do this poorly as a society, because much of a doctor’s job is to demonstrate confidence and instill calm. They act, one could fairly say, like a con man. The onus is therefore on you the patient to work out the actual epistemology of your circumstance. It is frequently much less certain than any doctor, drug manufacturer, or therapist would have you believe.

External games like purity are other people’s scoreboard. Informed consent is your own: you, the substance, and an honest approximation of uncertainty. To enhance performance, choose the right substances. To choose the substance, know the limits of what’s known.

Today I consented, informed, to one highly-caffeinated pearl tea. Three weeks of avoidance, cleared. Enhanced performance. Fundamentally good.

You’re Excellent at Friendship

To learn what you’re good at, ask other people. Even better, see what people pay you for.

Earlier today, I told a friend he’s excellent at friendship. He was surprised. He’d never thought of himself that way. He asked how I knew.

Here’s how: we’d just been talking about his bachelor party, a roomful of strong, eccentric personalities, every one a distinct weirdo, many of whom would never otherwise share a room. He gets along beautifully with all of them. Holding that many particular people close at once takes real skill. That skill is friendship. He has it without knowing.

This not-knowing is common. The people who are good at a thing are often the last to know it, because unmeasured skills are tough to compare. We can check the scored ones, though even there the ego cooks the books: somehow every poker player says they’re at the 75th percentile. The scoreless skills, friendship among them, keep no count we can read. So we stay blind to our placing within them.

Take the word “driven.” I have found the people who call themselves driven to be, more often than not, the lazy ones, using the word as a permit: “I’m usually such a hard worker, so I’ve earned a little time off.” The genuinely hard worker, meanwhile, tends to grind precisely because they’re convinced they’re too lazy. Their self-image points the opposite way from the truth. The person who repeatedly calls themselves happy is trying to convince someone, either themselves or others.

So most of us don’t know what we’re good at. We learn from outside, from what others reflect back, because the trait is relative and others judge it better than we do. The blindness runs deeper than skill: we can’t see our own traits, and those same traits decide both what we’re good at and what’s good for us.

This distinction gets even tougher when adding internal emotions: I’ve been turning this over today because two companies interviewed me. One piqued my interest immediately. The other, once I learned the details, is the better fit. It’s almost exactly what I’ve already done, less of a stretch. (“I’ve done all these pieces, just not in this precise combination”, I told them.) Being more drawn to the first isn’t evidence that it’s the better place for me. Being drawn to something is how marketing wins. My interest is one ingredient. When running the ikigai exercise, “what do I love?” is one question out of four. Love is helpful. It isn’t the whole answer. Yes, everyone needs passion. But passion can’t buy food. 

Here, what I’m good at aligns with what’s good for me, but they’re disconnected from what I’m drawn to. 

The thing you’re drawn to and the label you claim are stories about who you are, and the story is selling something. Identity has a downside we rarely count.

When choosing between passion and survival; when choosing between love or life, it is the martyr who chooses love. We reward the martyr with fame and acclaim. Pity they cannot spend it.

Score is the Thief of Commerce

“To win, score the most. To score the most, stop keeping score.”

Last week, after three days in my metaphorical writing cave, I hollered to Partner, “I know I haven’t been doing dishes. I owe you.” I caught it immediately: “Actually, I think keeping score is bad practice. I take it back.” She laughed and continued on with her day.

I like scores. Keeping score is a clear and straightforward way to understand and compare performance. But sometimes, keeping score can be actively harmful.

Macro scoring enables comparison between multiple options. Micro-scoring corrodes as it leads you to optimize the wrong things. As my family motto goes (it’s intentionally too long for comedic effect), “Before you hyper-optimize a process, be sure you’re optimizing for what you actually want and not a correlate.”

The Bad (Reflexive Scoring)

Should I owe Partner dishes? I was heads-down on work because I spent the previous three weeks coordinating medical appointments for Partner and renovation work for our apartment.

As Middle East history teaches: if you dig back far enough, you can find huge grievances on all sides. Without touching on rightness or wrongness (as I do not have a sufficiently long stick with which to touch), this process does not seem to form stability. And stability is something I would like in my partnership.

Simply: if Partner feels I’m not doing dishes enough, she will say so. If I feel I’m not washing dishes enough, I should wash more dishes.

Score-keeping as a way of digging yourself out of a hole will often lead to resentment of the scorekeeping mechanism (or participants, which is even worse).

The Good (Reflective Scoring)

I once heard a successful startup founder describe his romantic check-ins. He and his wife divide his work into four categories: money earner, father, lover, friend. Rating each on a 1–10 scale, so long as his overall score achieves more than 25 points, he passes. For this partnership, this calculation may solve a real problem: it recognizes a person’s contributions despite changes over time.

This scoring process is a feedback instrument, driven by deliberate weighing of details — not a reflex prompted by momentary discomfort.

The Bridge (Incentive Alignment)

Hourly work misaligns incentives. This structure causes less efficiency and innovation: working faster costs the worker money!

I realized this structure with my $16/hr marketing internship after my sophomore year of college. I automated all my work, and all the other interns’ work. My superior said, “Sit tight and read.” I arrived to work early and left late because they paid me hourly. I was always there to do work if they wanted to give me work. (Now, I would take a slightly different tack: raising this lack-of-work to my boss’s boss. But at the time, I thought arriving early and staying late to maximize my dollars was the standard way to play the game.)

Even if your boss is your best friend, the hourly contract puts you in opposition. The score isn’t a personality conflict; it’s a contract feature. No amount of scorekeeping can account for misalignment.

The Ugly (Anti-Commerce)

Some work should be 90%–10%. In my partnership, Partner captains cooking 90% of the time; I captain travel logistics and social plans 90% of the time. I’m sufficiently capable to create edible food. Partner is sufficiently capable to book flights and schedule with friends. We simply enjoy it less (and are less skilled).

Micro tit-for-tat prevents specializing and trading, which is the fundamental lesson of commerce. So long as we both share the common knowledge that we’re both helping the team, the score is anti-helpful.

When partners are aligned on what they’re moving toward, the allocation can skew without it mattering. Some weeks she does more; some weeks I do. The “oxygen mask before helping others” frame applies: feeding yourself, whether literal food or via nurturing work, isn’t a withdrawal from the partnership — it’s a contribution to it, because your effectiveness is shared.

The reflex inside an aligned partnership imports structural-scoring logic into a relationship that thrives on more flexibility than scoring provides.

The score is the thief of commerce.

The Reckoning (Trust)

Would you rather employ someone values-aligned and unskilled, or skilled but misaligned? For piecework, I think skilled but misaligned. For a teammate, values-aligned. (That said, I am historically incompetent at working with unskilled people.) But I guess that’s still better than someone who will sabotage, even if they do it unknowingly.

Alignment produces trust. A scorecard substitutes for trust, poorly.

Last night, Partner asked me to do the dishes.

Consistency, Consistency, Consstncy

“Every Day” means Every Day! means ¿Every Day? 

I have a motto: Seven days a week means seven days a week. (Except when it means five.) 

I have three categories of “Every day”: 

1. Religious Commitments 

If lightning struck me and I awoke in the emergency room, I would still write every day. 

The commitment is inflexible. The details are wishy-washy. Sometimes “day” stretches into the early morning hours of the next day. Sometimes “writing” means a scribbled sentence onto a post-it note reading “I don’t want to write today.” When I was writing two pages per day for my first book, many days started with writing “I don’t want to write today… I don’t want to write today…” until I got in the groove and shifted to the topic. Most days, I pen and publish a brief essay. 

When I injured my back, I performed a prenatal core workout as my daily 5 minute abs. 

This “every day” works because the requirement is rigid but the goal very easy

2. When 7 = 6 

    I lift weights every day. 

    (Except for ~2 days per week.) 

    I tell myself I lift weights every day. Sometimes this approach is honest: Over the last two months, some weeks, I lifted 7/7 days. 

    The issue: Weightlifting relies on unpredictable activities. How well will I sleep? How recovered will I be? Sometimes, I need a rest day to prevent injury. 

    7 days per week therefore becomes 6. But if I aimed for 6, 6 becomes 5… and 5 becomes 4…  and very soon I’m watching cartoons with Dorito dust on my chest

    This “every day” works because the requirement is flexible but the goal very intense. 

    3. The Failure of Flossing 

    Jeff Foxworthy’s dentist asks, “Have you been flossing every day?” 

    “Not every day…” Jeff admits. “The last time I flossed… You did it!” 

    Most people don’t floss. I don’t brush my teeth in the morning. (I only brush at night.) 

    Turns out I brush in the morning every day the way most people floss every day. 

    Default to Yes

    I experience a large mental cost oscillating about action. 

    Writing 5 days per week is somehow more difficult than 7. If I give myself an out, I consider and negotiate. Instead, I commit and know my category. 

    Seven days a week means seven days a week.

    (Except for the contexts where it should mean five.)

    (Or zero.)

    (Or negative one.)