Without Numbers

Second day in a row, I went for a run without my watch. I have no idea if this will be a trend. I kept turning my left hand over to look at my wrist during the run. At the end of today's I almost pushed my right index finger to my left wrist but felt foolish enough to stop. Old habits. The watch keeps track of heart rate too and I've long run in a low heart-rate range. Going without the watch, I don't know what my heart rate was. I just ran by feel and felt good.

A guy this week ran a marathon in under two hours. First time that's been done, so far as we know. It's nice to know we have almost limitless potential. I just hope he didn't do better running through chemicals. That sort of thing happens when we get too caught up with numbers.

I'm listening to a record on the turntable. I don't know how many times I've played it and lack any way to tell mathematically, algorithmically which record, song, or artist I've heard most. Instead, I scan the spines and see what strikes my fancy. Right now it's Steely Dan's Greatest Hits and "Here At The Western World." How did that song not make it onto a regular album? I mean, really.

This month I've stayed off the scale. I know about what I weigh. No matter the number, I'm heavier than is healthy. The daily weigh in became, as it often does, a drag, so I stopped. Sitting here, I feel my belly over my belt. That's all the data I need at the moment.

This week I started a new writing notebook. It lacks page numbers and I haven't written any in. I begin notebooks wondering how long I'll take to finish them. Maybe there's a better way of thinking.

Our older daughter is home from college this weekend. I could count hours and minutes until I take her back (and we resume missing her daily presence), but I'll skip that.

Numbers are my habit and often my friend. Sometimes they get in the way and every relationship needs a break at least for a little while. I would tell you how long this break will last, but I've decided not to count.

I Made A Mess

I'm struggling to write about coffee, the environment, convenience's costs, and simple solutions. Since I've made a mess of it, but want you to know one idea, I'm just saying it here in big blue letters:

Carry a ceramic mug and stop using disposable paper coffee cups.

How difficult is that really?

There's no good reason to ever use a disposable coffee cup. No matter what you want to believe, they're likely not recyclable, so just stop. I'm sure you're smart enough to figure out another way. Get to it.

I'm going back to writing. I've got good coffee in my ceramic mug and eventually I'll clean up the mess I've made. Maybe we all will.

I Am So Not A Good Salesperson

I should be better at publicizing my blog and newsletter. I was pretty concerned about such things when I was in the process of quitting my job and hadn't yet found a new one. But then when I found and started a new job I took a break from writing and marketing. I gratefully dropped out of Facebook and Twitter. So what's a boy to do in getting the word out?

Luckily, I don't need to go viral. There are people who need to make money blogging. I'm not one of them. With money off the table, I just write, publish, and let things happen.

And I do it mostly for myself. Sorry, but it's true. I'm glad when something I wrote works for someone, but I write here because it feels good, feels right, feels like the next level of something I've done most of my life and always will.

Yesterday I posted a newsletter link to LinkedIn, the one social media that seems worth my time. I wanted to identify myself as a writer there and maybe provide someone some enjoyment. It won't expand the subscriber ranks much.

There are easy things I could do to increase readership and having a larger audience might push me in some interesting ways. I'm not against having more readers, but for the moment I'm not interested in pushing that. I'm more curious what happens if I keep showing up and doing the work. I have a feeling things will work out as they should.

I started with less than a dozen readers, all family. Fifty-seven people subscribe to the newsletter now, one more than a month ago. Slow growth? Sure. I can live with that. I'm in it for the long haul and for things other than fame, glory, and money.

That said, if you want to send me money, shower me with glory, or connect me with fame, I suppose we can work something out.

Thank You

Thank you, woman in Wegmans who looked at me today and then, when I looked, glanced away only to look at me again. It has been longer than I care to consider since I was last checked out and I'm over the moon that it happened today.

It was a challenging day at work. I wasn't sure I knew what I was doing but kept doing it. After a day like that it's not Miller time so much as Wegmans time for bagels to break my wife's and daughter's Yom Kippur fast and a bag of pistachios for me. That and to people-watch. In the bakery aisle I got bagels and slowly made my way to dairy humming Springsteen's — "Western Stars" — until I remembered we didn't need cream cheese. I went to the back corner thinking I might get beer but decided against it and turned down the snack aisle so I could decide against a bag of chips. I grabbed pistachios hoping they're maybe least a little healthier.

Along the way I saw two guys laugh near the flowers, a small child pointing at her teeth less to show me than to count them (she was on twenty-nine when I passed, which I thought was optimistic), a woman limping in high heeled sandals, three old people hanging onto carts being gently pulled by quiet people with faraway eyes every one, a woman in black dress, heels, and make-up fit for a state dinner, three college women carrying fancy water bottles and wearing black running tights, and one dog being trained to help others. Don't pet. That dog's working.

At the registers the old woman ahead of me paid with her "Oh, it's so easy!" she said. The boy nodded, eyebrows raised. After she left, he scanned my pistachios and I told him, "five bagels." I tapped my phone (so easy!) and thanked him. Picking up my bag, I looked at a woman looking at me. She turned her eyes away then looked again and turned away. I smiled, not at her (creepy!), but at getting checked out. Day made.

Now, sure, I might have had ink on my shirt in the shape of a gunshot wound or a split down my pants (two things I've had at Wegmans before), but no, so I'm going with the odd notion that she checked me out and riding that high. Why not?

Thank you, woman in Wegmans who checked me out today. It's hours later. The sun is down. Yom Kippur has ended for my wife and daughter (I'm not Jewish). The moon is up and there I go, right over it, into the heavens.