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D: None of the Above

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Their names fly by after the final scene amid music that often recapitulates what we’ve just heard in a movie theater or at home during a streaming film. 

In fact, oftentimes, the streaming services will suggest the next film before the credits role, giving us the option to move effortlessly from one movie to the next without pausing to allow the movie to resonate or to squint at the names during the credits.

Every industry is filled with the invisibles. These are the people who make stuff happen, but who are not at the center of an effort.

Take dining out. We see the maitre d’, the waiter or waitress and we might even acknowledge the cook or the sushi chef. But, really, numerous invisibles are a part of the food process, from the fishermen who woke up before sunlight to catch the fresh fish we’re considering eating to the farmer who planted and harvested the vegetables to the truck drivers who ship these products all over the state and the country.

We are often a part of a bigger industry that relies on the services of others, many of whom we don’t know or see but who contribute to our lives.

Products like pharmaceuticals rely on numerous contributions. Patients take a drug during its clinical trials, tended to by doctors and nurses, while scientists may have discovered a potential target for an illness or a disease and then searched for a small molecule that might change our fates or improve our condition.

The invisibles also glide by the way homes and the tops of trees pass as a part of a blurry landscape when we’re riding the Long Island Railroad.

We walk by people as we navigate a crowded sidewalk towards a Broadway show or on our way to an important appointment in the city.

We sit at a traffic light to turn left, waiting for the cars we can see, but not necessarily the people in them, to pass us so we can get to our destination.

When children are young, they see and observe everyone. As my wife and I used to say, “the recorder is always on,” whether someone is lecturing about what children should know or do or is setting an example or, as the case may be, a counter example.

I was on a plane recently when a mother holding a baby in front of her stopped to wait for others to put away their luggage. Unconcerned about social convention, the young child stared at my wife and me, then shifted his eyes and looked directly at the people in the row across the aisle.

The mother continued to look straight, anticipating the moment when she could continue past us on her way to her seat.

Social convention keeps us from looking directly at people for too long. We don’t want to make them uncomfortable and, sometimes, we also don’t want to encourage everyone to engage in conversation with us.

As we pass through various grades, we become selective about our friends, no longer feeling the need to invite everyone in class to birthday parties.

When we’re older, we attend larger gatherings and we greet everyone. Well, no, not exactly everyone. We may not spend much time chatting with the busy waitress, getting to know members of the other family at a wedding, or connecting with the Uber driver who took us to the catering hall.

We don’t need to acknowledge everyone all the time. That would be impossible. Some people also enjoy the freedom a cloak of invisibility provides. Some of my favorite parties, in fact, were those where so few people knew me that I had no social responsibilities or obligations, allowing me to dance with arms flailing and shoulders shimmying with a relaxed grin pasted across my sweaty face.

And yet, there are those times, when someone is sitting alone or is taking another long drive, when a few words might provide the kind of connection that helps them feel seen.

To return to the movie example, we sometimes watch characters who are otherwise ignored or written off who become central to other people’s lives. Those people may be waiting for an opening or an acknowledgement or for the opportunity to feel our recognition and appreciation. We can be moved by people who lived hundreds or thousands of years ago, but we can also move with those who share time and space with us today.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

People don’t generally get married at 9 a.m, with an active, energetic and all-out party that follows immediately after the magical ceremony and that lasts until 3 pm.

No, big events like weddings, birthday parties and even smaller gatherings, like, oh, I don’t know, a pickleball tournament, sometimes start late in the evening and end some time after midnight.

Those are, as we all know, the typically festive party hours, when we welcome, as loudly as we can, the married couple for the first time to the dance floor, when we yell into each other’s ears standing feet from the trumpet and trombone players and when we cheer for the heartfelt sentiments of friends and family who share moving anecdotes about the people at the center of attention.

But what if, like me, you’re a morning person? What if, as the night goes on and everyone else becomes increasingly giddy, the inner child in you begs to go to bed because you know, no matter how hard you try to block out the morning light or to sleep in as late as possible, you will arise early the next morning?

For the past few incredible weekends, in which I visited my son in college where we played in a late night pickleball contest that ended around 1 a.m. and then traveled to celebrate a family wedding for a beloved cousin whom I’ve known since she was four, I have desperately tried to force my mind and body to push through the fatigue.

I recognize, of course, that people can’t and don’t sleep when their bodies and minds demand, such as when they are working several shifts or jobs to pay the bills, when they are taking care of someone late at night, or when an illness keeps them from getting the rest they need. These are clearly much harder and more real challenges than playing in a sporting event or celebrating with family.

I also realize that the academic and working world is geared towards morning people. Important tests and meetings can start as early as 8 a.m., when night owls would otherwise prefer to cruise into the final few hours of a restful sleep. Standardized tests also never started at 10 p.m. Someday, maybe some circadian scientist will offer to give tests at different blocks of time and see if scores improve for those who self select into their hourly wheelhouse.

I recall my first experiences with activities that extended well past midnight. Decades ago, I attended an all night dance to raise money for a worthy cause. I wasn’t sure how I’d do at 2 a.m. or 3 a.m., when my body demanded time to recharge and shut down.

Fortunately, my high school friends and I took cat naps and, once the sun appeared, my system came back to life.

High school ski trips also typically left the school parking lot some time around 2 or 3 a.m., which was tough on those who drove us to school, especially if they had early morning activities the next day. After greeting everyone at the bus, I slept against the window, waiting until the sun flicked my “on” switch back into position.

During the recent late night pickleball games and wedding, I did my best to rally beyond my daily routine.

The first few games of pickleball went well, as the excitement of competition and of spending time with my son more than compensated for my fatigue.

The toughest words that night were “let’s run it back,” which my son and his friends said after each game. That meant one more game which turned into at least five more. By the end of the night, I felt like I was playing on four flat tires and I was swatting helplessly at the ball. I definitely cost us the final game, which my son accepted with remarkably good nature.

Fatigue didn’t interfere noticeably at the wedding, particularly because I threw myself around the floor to some of the final songs, including Madonna’s “Like a Prayer.”

The after party at the hotel, however, pushed my limit. When someone nearby lit up a cigar, the scent of which overwhelmed my system, I couldn’t continue to stay awake and ignore the smell.

While I didn’t hang out and chat in the lobby until the last moment of the post party gathering, I made it past 2 a.m., which is as late as I can get before closing my eyes for “just a second” turns into a few hours of much needed rest.

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0 414
METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Even for a family that often lives in fifth gear, this weekend is especially frenetic.

First, on Saturday, we’re going to the wedding for a member of my wife’s extended family. We’ve been looking forward to this for more than a year.

Over 25 years ago, the bride attended our wedding in a white dress that, thanks to my mother in law, matched the one my wife wore. It’s so easy to recall her doe-eyed face when she and her younger brother set a speed record as they raced down the aisle.

We had asked the children on both sides to participate, which they did to the delight of our friends and family.

I’m sure memories of the bride and groom will play through many people’s minds during the wedding. As I sit with my wife, son and daughter, I will likely picture the four-year-old version of the bride, whom I used to throw as high and far as I could from the shallow end into the deep end in my father-in-law’s warm pool.

I’ll hold hands with my wife as we share in the excitement of this ceremony, which marks the beginning of their married life and is an extension of a high school friendship that has turned into something much deeper.

After the ceremony, we will reconnect with extended family, finding out recent details of their lives. We will hug and kiss the amazing grandmother, who has provided unconditional family support since the moment I met her close to 30 years ago.

Our niece will also be a major attraction, as she is the seven-months pregnant matron of honor and is the first member of the next generation on either side of our family who is expecting a child.

And then, ahhh, the dancing! My family will be on the dance floor as long as possible, throwing ourselves around as if we were in some kind of Zumba, aerobics, bodies-in-motion session. 

My shirt will become a much darker color as I sweat through it, and our daughter will somehow know the words to just about every song the band plays.

As the party winds towards its conclusion, we will continue moving and cheering, looking to squeeze every last drop out of this wedding.

The next day, we’ll amble out to a Sunday breakfast and recount some of the excitement from the night before.

But, wait, then there’s part two. We’ll head over to CitiField, where we’ll see my side of the family for a Mets game and, more importantly, celebrate a momentous birthday for our nephew.

We’ll share the excitement of this big birthday as we all become die hard Mets fans for the day, even as we also may share a few memories.

Indeed, when the birthday boy’s brother was born, my girlfriend (now my wife) and I drove to Baltimore. She left earlier than I. My then three-year-old nephew joined us as I walked her to her car.

“Bye, love you,” I said to my wife, kissing her through the rolled down window.

“Bye, love you,” our nephew echoed, standing on his tip toes as he offered an irresistible grin.

We’ll likely compare baseball stories and anecdotes about my nephew who has been married for over a year.

I may even tell the story about a memorable phone call.

His father, who wasn’t a morning person, called me early one Sunday. He asked me about my weekend and my plans for the week. Stupidly, I answered all his questions without thinking of the context for his life.

“Great,” he said, sounding both tired and excited. “Well, guess what?”

I shrugged while he paused either for effect or to take a quick rest.

“You’re an uncle,” he declared.

I jumped out of bed and couldn’t possibly get dressed quickly enough to meet someone I’m as eager to see today and any other day as the day he was born.

While we might wistfully recount such stories, we will also have the incredible gift of family time.Amid all the other times that come and go, we will have a full weekend where we won’t focus on whatever worries us about the world. We will share the joy of staying present, reveling in these magical moments that matter.

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A debate. Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Do you want to know the honest truth?

No, do me a favor. Lie to me. In fact, come up with something so outrageous that I might crack a broad smile and even allow a chuckle to bubble out of my mouth. 

Whenever anyone asks if you’d like them to share the honest truth, it’s often not particularly positive or flattering and is a way of giving them the opportunity to say that you asked for it, whatever the “it” happens to be.

Here’s the honest truth: you didn’t do all that well in the debate. You said your name correctly and your political party, but after that, you kind of lost the thread of what you were saying, particularly when you forgot where you were and starting picking your nose. Not a good look.

Or, perhaps, the honest truth? I don’t like Chinese food and you always ask if we can go to a Chinese restaurant. I know you like the Peking duck and the moo shu pork, which makes you think of the small funny character from Disney’s “Mulan” voiced by Eddie Murphy, but I’m not a fan and I’d prefer to go somewhere else.

People often use phrases that are a big set up or, despite being unnecessary, have become a part of the way we speak.

Take the phrase “going forward,” as in, we are going to institute a policy in which everyone has to come to the office four days a week going forward. Can we go backwards? Does the going forward part suggest now, as opposed to something that might start in two weeks, two months or two years?

Or, how about “at the end of the day?” People will ask if some change brings any value at the end of the day. How about at the end of a meal or at the end of a sentence?

Then there’s the word “literally,” as in I literally laughed my head off. No, actually, you didn’t, because you’re speaking to me and your head still seems to be attached.

I “literally” dropped my fork on the floor. Can you figuratively drop a fork on the floor? I suppose in the “Matrix” world of Keanu Reeves, where there is no fork, you might figuratively drop it on the floor as a part of some epistemological challenge, but most of us live in a world where the utensil we hold in our hands is made of matter and makes a sound when we drop it, even if we’re in a forest and no one is there to hear it.

Then there are all the extra words that delay the punchline. People regularly say, “do you want to know my all time favorite food?”

No, actually, I’d rather know the food you preferred when you were a toddler. Do you remember that one? Was it peas, carrots, or sweet potato? We gave our daughter so much sweet potato when she was young — she seemed to like it and made happy noises when she ate it — that it turned her face orange. And that was the color without any make up.

I might want to know your all time favorite movie, as opposed to your favorite movie for this year or from the 1980’s. I will reluctantly admit that the phrase in such a discussion has merit.

While we’re delving into the language of today, I would like to share a few cliches that, if you’ll pardon the cliche, sound like nails on a chalkboard to me. 

By the way, we should probably retire that because, if you want to know the honest truth, not many people are using chalkboards anymore.

Cliches, yes, cliches, like beating a dead horse, are non specific and overused.

The phrase, “it is what it is,” which is fun to say when people are complaining about the food, the service, the poor play of your favorite baseball team, or the weather, is a logical shrug.

We might as well write, or say, A is A, eh? It’s a tautology. Of course, it is what it is. Maybe we should change it to, “it isn’t what it isn’t,” or, perhaps, “it can’t be what it couldn’t be.”

So, if you want to know the honest truth at the end of the day, I prefer to avoid words going forward that act like fog in front of my all time favorite painting, which, after all, is what it is.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

One day decades from now, will the people involved with the Environmental Protection Agency look back at their legacy and feel pride and satisfaction? Sure, reducing waste is a good idea, cutting unnecessary costs is beneficial and effective and removing regulations that might cause inefficiencies without adding much benefit could be helpful.

But at what cost and what is lost along the way?

Take, for example, the New York Times piece earlier this week that suggested that the EPA is exploring the possibility of laying off 1,155 chemists, biologists, toxicologists, and other scientists. The NYT cited Democrats on the House Committee on Science, Space and Technology to describe this proposed plan.

The agency plans to get rid of 75 percent of the people who work in the Office of Research and Development. Does ignoring problems, removing the scientists who study them, and reducing the likelihood of tracking any threats to the environment and to human health make it better?

Lee Zeldin, former Republican congressmen from NY-1 and a strong supporter of President Donald Trump, is heading up the agency.

The proposal, which, fortunately, appears to be just that at this stage, reminds me of the time President Trump suggested that the only reason the United States has more cases of Covid than other nations was because we were testing for it.

So, the solution, implicit in that observation, is that if we don’t test for it, we won’t know how prevalent it is and we will look better compared with other nations.

No, look, I get it. On some level, more rigorous testing means we will find problems that might otherwise not require too much effort to solve. Some people who tested positive for Covid didn’t get that sick and didn’t require medical attention.

Knowing whether people contracted the virus, however, could be useful for everyone. You see, if a certain sub group of the country had the virus but didn’t get all that sick, scientists might be able to compare the blood, the backgrounds, or the pre-existing medical conditions to determine who is most or least at risk from various health threats.

The same holds true for the environment. Data is helpful and can and should help make informed decisions.

We don’t already know everything we need to know. As any scientist will tell you, the results they get can and often are exciting. What inspires them beyond their results is the next set of questions.

The federal government may not want to support every type of research, but dismissing over a thousand scientists can and will lead to the kind of dangerous information gaps that could affect human health and the environment.

Scientists don’t generally live lives of extreme wealth and luxury, unless they invent or patent something that people decide they can’t live without or that becomes a necessity.

I have known scientists for decades. They often work long hours, are dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge and to contributing to their fields, and tend to live modest lives.

Back in the day when I covered Wall Street banks, I rubbed elbows with power brokers who thought nothing of spending lavishly on dinners, who sat a few rows from the on-deck circle at Yankee Stadium, and who had cars waiting for them day and night to bring them to and from their luxurious homes.

Scientists and educators, on the whole, don’t have the same professional financial options.

And yet they help advance society, protect us from infections, keep our water and air clean and gather the kind of information we shouldn’t ignore.

Before cutting over a thousand people in a drastic cost cutting initiative, the EPA and Zeldin should study the type of information these researchers produce.

We wouldn’t want to heat our houses by burning down the wood that supports our walls and ceilings. Scientists can help us figure out whether decisions by individuals or companies are doing just that, providing us with temporary warmth at great expense to the homes in which we live.

Information, after all, isn’t owned exclusively by one political party or another, the way a resort might be. As with other layoff decisions by the Trump administration, I hope they reconsider this one. If they do, the older versions of themselves and their grandchildren may one day appreciate it and benefit from the work these scientists do to protect the environment we share.

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Pixabay photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Those of us who don’t have to justify the job we’re doing or get fired are fortunate. We know that and we don’t envy those people who have to make a solid case for keeping a job that may only provide a marginal level of satisfaction.

Apart from whatever I print on a weekly basis, it occurred to me to list some of the intangibles of various levels of my job and, perhaps, my life, recognizing that whatever I write is on the lighter side compared to the serious business of asking strangers to put them in the “okay to stay” pile.

Chit-chatting. Many of my conversations are one sided. I ask questions and then, based on the answer, continue to ask more questions. People generally like to talk about themselves, which makes the process enjoyable for both of us. I’m looking for information and they’re sharing it. More than that, though, I’m keeping the relationship open. No, I’m not in relationships with all these people, but I am helping them feel connected and, in turn, am feeling connected to them.

Gathering back stories. Everything I learn doesn’t go in the paper. That, however, doesn’t mean it’s useless. I might find out a tidbit that grows into something bigger, like a few flakes of snow that stick together. Over time, those flakes may take shape and become, say, a snowball, a snow angel, or a snow globe.

Helping people feel important. Just by reaching out to people to ask their opinions and listening to the answers, I may be giving people the peace of mind that someone is listening closely, or, in some cases, at all, to them. And, for those people who feel disenfranchised, I could also provide them with the opportunity to say, “no, go away, I don’t want to talk with you.” That, in and of itself, is empowering for them, even if it’s not exactly improving my chances of doing my job better.

Supporting all kinds of companies. I talk on the phone, I text, and I send emails. Sometimes, I even try telepathy, although that doesn’t work through a conglomerate or a telecommunications system. All these efforts are propping up the economy, making shareholders wealthier and helping sustain jobs. Oh, and I also shop at the supermarket regularly, where I talk with people who can sometimes tell me to go away, which makes them feel better, and I gather the kinds of pieces of information that might lead to a story.

You see where I’m going with this, right? I’m helping the economy, gathering information for future stories, improving the overall mental health of my community while picking up dog food, vegetables and chicken for dinner, all at the same time. How many jugglers could do all those things at once?

I’m reading other stories. Journalism, as they’ve been saying since I entered the field decades ago, is a difficult and challenging business. By reading the material that other people write, supporting some of my fellow journalists through online subscriptions or, in a few rare cases, hard copies of papers and magazines, I’m supporting an industry that includes me. You see? And, I’m staying in touch with parts of the world, our culture and the infosphere that extends outside my small circle of knowledge.

I’m pursuing my passions. No, wait, hear me out here. You see, by following the latest developments with, say, the Yankees, I’m able to talk with other people about hobbies and then I mix in that information to keep people on the phone and gather more information. It might not seem like it’s critical to know about the injured list for the Yankees, but it’s important to many fans and it helps form the bridge that leads to chit chat, information and, eventually stories.

Not just a journalist. When it comes to writing about anything, say, medicine, the environment, living my values, sharing knowledge and information, it’s helpful to be a consumer, a thinker and a reporter all at once. I write about medicine and I go to doctors regularly, I write about science and I observe squirrels in my backyard, and I write about parenting and I deal with the challenges and accomplishments of my children, sometimes within minutes of each other.

Like baseball players who alter the outcome of a game with one swing, I sometimes also strike out along the way, which makes it possible for me to search for that perfect pitch. No, I’m not perfect and not everything I do provides a linear progression from effort to accomplishment, but much of it, even actions that appear disconnected, provide value. You just have to look hard enough and be ready to understand and believe it.

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A collection of yellow snapper. Photo by Daniel Dunaief
Several needle fish. Photo by Daniel Dunaief
A stingray. Photo by Daniel Dunaief
A trumpet fish. Photo by Daniel Dunaief
A sand diver. Photo by Daniel Dunaief

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Nature rocks!

I know that’s not such a startling revelation, particularly to those people who go hiking, snorkeling or scuba diving.

It’s just that the world around us, and perhaps a flight away, puts the one we’ve created in perspective.

My wife and I recently took a vacation without the kids gasp!— for the first time in over two decades. We didn’t leave them home with a babysitter. They’re both grown up and out of the house, so we left our empty-ish nest, which still had two cats a dog and a vibrant and active bird feeder, to travel to a Caribbean island.

Yes, I know. These vacations can make just about anyone feel rhapsodic. You step off the plane onto a tarmac that’s invitingly warm and bright, you hear Bob Marley music, you feel the refreshing wind on your face, and you tilt your head back, feeling the tension ease out of your muscles more rapidly than if you were on a massage table.

While all of that is amazing, the time we spent communing with, appreciating, observing and feeling genuine awe towards nature were among the most remarkable and enjoyable moments of our travel.

Nature is the currency of communication in our household. Years ago, we were on long drives with children who wanted to know how much longer until we got wherever we were going and we’d see a fox scurrying across the road. We’d pull over and watch for a while, forgetting, for the moment, that we hadn’t arrived and feeling as if we were exactly where we should be.

So, yes, all four of us delight in the opportunity to observe, interact with, or appreciate nature, whether we’re far away or taking a walk through the neighborhood. On my morning walks with our dog, I often take pictures of the hawks that land nearby and the worms that wriggle on the sidewalk after a rainstorm and send them to my wife and children.

Anyway, my wife and I rocked back and forth on a boat that was taking us out to a coral reef, reveling in the pristine air and marveling at the pelicans that glided inches above the water, following their beaks to the next fish meal.

Even before we arrived, we saw turtles swimming near the boat, sticking their colorful heads out of the water so they could take a long gulp of air.

As we prepared to exit the boat, I was delighted to put on my prescription dive mask. Typically, I use a regular mask and try to connect the vague shapes I see at the bottom of the reef with the clearer images we have on our dive card.

This time, as soon as I looked down, I could see the white sand eight feet down and the contours and colors of the fish and the technicolor reef below.

As we made our way along the reef, we searched for the usual striped sergeant majors, green and blue parrotfish, multicolored tilefish, red squirrelfish and orange and white tobacco fish. Each of these residents of the reef contributes to a vibrant scene.

For a while, we tracked a stingray my wife spotted. We also spied the magnificent and svelte barracudas, with their conspicuous underbite and their shimmery silver sides.

Even though we went snorkeling at the same site several times, we witnessed something new with each visit. We watched a sand diver as it stopped on the bottom and perched on a rock, the way a movie studio might envision a mermaid preening on a rock near shore.

The snorkeling instructors required us to wear yellow flotation belts to keep us at the top of the water. That made diving to the bottom challenging, as these belts counteracted my efforts to kick myself closer to the reef. I secretly took mine off, handed it to my wife, and got a close up of the sand diver, which looks like a cross between a lizard and a fish.

On one of our days away, we took an excursion to a nearby island, where we watched an improbably large hermit crab slowly make its way across the sand, dragging its enormous shell. Nearby, lizards of different sizes chased each other as they searched for food or perhaps a preferable place in the sand.

While stepping away from work, concrete sidewalks, cooler air, and various responsibilities in and of itself was refreshing, immersing ourselves in nature offered transcendent peace.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I went to the bank to deposit a check recently. My daughter, of course, doesn’t do any such foolish activities. She knows how to deposit her checks without leaving her apartment.

Yes, technology is wonderful, but I still like to go to the bank and get a receipt that I promptly add to the pile of random papers that is almost as tall as I am.

Several hours before the bank closed on a Friday, the stories and queries about weekend plans were all the rage.

“What are you doing this weekend?” one teller asked excitedly. She smiled so broadly that she could easily be in the finals for a game show hosting competition or, at the very least, win extra points for customer friendliness.

“I’m having such a great day,” the teller offered before I could muster a noncommittal reply.

“Why?” I asked, as I glared at the machine that seemed to be refusing to take my check. A hint here: machines don’t care if you glare.

“Well, my manager made nachos today and she brought in home baked cookies,” she said. “They were amazing. I was planning to get a salad but this is so much better.”

“Sounds great,” I said, as I willed the machine to take the check. “I’m not sure how many of those I could eat in a day and get away with it.”

She looked me up and down and laughed.

“Yeah, well, I’m young and I still can’t get away with it,” she suggested.

Yup, I’m older. What gave it away? My gray hair? The fact that I’m depositing a check at the counter? The wrinkles? The indulgent impatience blended with a need to check off the next errand box?

“My daughter is having a sleepover,” one man sighed. “I’m going to grill for them. My wife is going to handle the rest, but…”

Yes, but you might need to take on some responsibility. And who knows how late they’ll stay up. And, of course, who knows if they’ll break any of the rules they promised to uphold before your and your wife agreed to allow this party.

Like my parents, I was never a huge fan of sleepovers. The sleep part often didn’t materialize, making the kids grumpy and surly the next day, sabotaging any quality, hah!, family time or even household peace.

Another person at the bank planned to travel with her daughter for a cheer competition.

“If I knew then what I knew now, I’m not sure I would have encouraged that,” she grinned.

I couldn’t help smiling at that.

“You know,” I said looking away from the machine that still refused to take my check the way a young child refuses to open his mouth when you’re giving him medicine, “It kind of doesn’t matter what activities your children choose. Once they’re in, you’re along for the ride.”

I ticked off all the sports our children did. 

“So, which was your favorite?” she asked.

“Volleyball and soccer,” I said, picking one from each child.

“Why?” she grinned. The machine had started to make some promising coming-to-life noises that were the electronic equivalent of the groans my dog makes when I get him up too early.

“Volleyball is amazing because a player can mishit the ball twice in a rally and the team can still win the point. It’s a forgiving sport, unlike baseball or softball where one ball might come to a player per hour.”

“And soccer?” she asked.

“Oh, that’s easy,” I shrugged. “I knew nothing about the sport, so I wasn’t tempted to be an annoying judgmental over the top father who needs my children to be the absolute best player on the field. Not that he wasn’t, of course, but I could honestly offer him encouragement without being even mildly tempted to provide advice.”

At that moment, the check finally went through. 

With that, the cookie-making banker handed me my receipt, I waved to everyone and wished them well with their weekends.

Some Mondays can’t come soon enough.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Uh oh. I started to feel sick more than a week ago.

What could it be?

Let’s see: I had a headache, my nose was running, I had a low grade-ish fever, although my thermometer was much more like a magic eight ball than an effective way to determine my temperature, and I was much more exhausted than usual.

Of course, I had…. well, what?

I mean, these days, one person’s virus is another’s bacteria is another’s combination of things.

I went to the pharmacy and picked up a collection of over the counter flu treatments to reduce the symptoms for everything.

You see, the problem is that I know that I had only three or four days to get to a doctor to get a definitive diagnosis.

I felt too sick to go to the doctor and hoped my vague, general symptoms would leave me alone.

Nope, they barnacled their way into my system, leaving me, day after day, wondering what I had, how contagious I was and whether I should see a doctor.

After muddling through four days, I went to a local drug store, where I picked up a test for Covid and the flu.

After receiving negative tests for both, I scheduled a doctor’s visit. I wasn’t sure what she’d be able to tell me, but I was hopeful that she could give me a magic pill or a definitive diagnosis.

After explaining all my symptoms to the nurse, I went through the same routine with the doctor.

“Well, you should be getting better in a few days,” she shrugged. “There’s really no point in testing you at this point.”

“What can I take?” I asked.

“Advil? Tylenol?” she recommended.

Hmm. I felt as if I were hearing the old “take two aspirin and call me in the morning” advice.

I racked my brains trying to think about what might have made me sick. Was it the money I touched? I rarely handle cash, but I didn’t want to pay the extra 3 percent credit card fee for a food purchase in the days before I got sick.

Was it traveling on an airplane? Probably not, because I still wear a mask to keep my hands away from my face.

METRO photo

Was it the guy at the gym who was exhaling hard in my direction while he race walked on the nearby treadmill? Sometimes, when I can smell someone’s breath at the gym, as I did earlier last week, I figure that’s a sign to move to another apparatus, but those dang endorphins were kicking in, making it hard for me to give up my treadmill before working through my routine.

Much as we might wish that we could return to normal now that Covid is gone, normal, as we might recall, still includes the passing along of all kinds of disagreeable illnesses with their persistent symptoms.

Perhaps it’s the extended winter. After all, usually by now, we’ve had some respite from the lower temperatures and strong winds. We might be spending more indoor time with other people.

Yeah, people can be great, because they can make us laugh, commiserate with us when things don’t go well with our kids or at work, and can share entertaining and enjoyable outings to concerts and sporting events.

And yet, those same people are like walking petri dishes, with their own sets of flora and fauna that can threaten to keep us from feeling completely healthy.

Despite being a bit obsessive compulsive about germs, I am not antisocial and I don’t generally try to avoid people.

I do, at times when I’m feeling sick, wish that I had an app on my phone that’s akin to finding all my friends. Instead of searching for people in my network, this app might warn me about entering a room with a preponderance of viral or bacterial particles.

Maybe this app could be like a GPS with a safety feature.

“No, that bathroom in Grand Central Station is a bad idea. The knob is covered in virus A and the paper towel dispenser has virus B.”

Being sick saps some of the fun from each day. If misery loves company, I suppose I have plenty of friends with stuffy noses, dull headaches, and mild to moderate congestion.

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METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

We recognize and register the temperature as soon as we leave our climate controlled house, car or office and step foot outside.

Cold, windy air might cause us to raise our shoulders, protecting our necks the way frightened turtles might pull back towards the shell when they sense a threat.

We have developed a real feel temperature or a “it feels like” temperature. Yes, it’s 28 degrees, but it feels like 12, which, to some, is more like negative 20.

How people experience temperature varies widely. An 85 degree day, with bright sunshine, could make one person feel as if he’s ready to conquer the world and is absorbing the sun’s energy.

Another person, say me, for example, might step out into that same temperature and instinctively search for shade, an air conditioner or a place near the water.

Many of us have friends, coworkers, spouses, children or roommates who prefer temperatures that are diametrically opposed to our own heat or cold sensitivity.

If my house were, say, 66 degrees, I would likely feel comfortable, while my wife would probably come into my home office wearing a sweater, gloves and a frown.

Taking out the financial part of the equation, people can and often do battle for control of the thermostat.

Differences between the sexes can explain some of this temperature disconnect.

Beyond describing the different cultures, expectations, communications and score keeping between men and women, the metaphor from the book “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus” also might aptly capture the temperature differences, as Venus, with its gaseous carbon dioxide atmosphere, is the hottest planet and Mars is the fourth hottest. Neptune, incidentally, is the coldest.

While the gender generalization may apply in some cases, that’s never been my family’s reality. My daughter and I tend to run hotter, while my wife and son are cooler and prefer some heat as a counterbalance.

During the extremes of either season, half of the family is comfortable while the other half is either looking to dive into a pool of ice water or is eager to sit with a book near a roaring fire.

Many years ago, my wife and I attended a spectacularly hot college reunion. Well, it was incredibly hot for me. My wife left my side for a moment and returned with some ice cubes. She dumped them down my back and was shocked when I didn’t arch my back or pull my shirt out of my waist to dump the ice on the floor. The ice provided welcome relief.

The moderate middle tends to keep the family happy, as no one is complaining about uncomfortable extremes.

Given temperature sensitivities in our house, we all tend to be closest to our temperature best in the fall and spring.

Of course, as with everything else in life, different stages bring different temperature sensitivities.

When my wife was pregnant with each of our children, her body ran much hotter. We took winter walks that would have been almost inconceivable, so to speak, before we conceived.

The passage of decades, however, has changed how I experience temperature. I have become much more comfortable sitting in a warm baseball stadium and am not so tough when confronted with single digit temperatures.

To be sure, I’m still not able to wallow in a jacuzzi or an unusually hot pool for any length of time without feeling as if my skin is starting to boil.

Recognizing that what constitutes comfortable temperatures varies, I wonder why people so often imagine hell as a place with fire and brimstone.

The poet Robert Service wrote a wonderful and lengthy poem about Sam McGee, which a bus driver recited from memory when my wife and I took a trip to Alaska. With beluga whales we could see surfacing in the distance as we drove along the coast, she shared “The Cremation of Sam McGee” about someone who left Tennessee to search for gold in the Arctic only to discover that the cold was much easier to find than gold.

Sam is so spectacularly cold that he delights in the idea of being cremated when he inevitably dies.

For Sam, and perhaps many others, heat might be far preferable to a frigid afterlife.

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