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D: None of the Above

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By Daniel Dunaief

Everywhere we go, we are surrounded by sights, sounds, and smells. More often than not, other people need something from us, want to talk with or at us, and expect us to provide feedback, learn from them, acknowledge them or validate their existence.

At the same time, our texts, emails, social media apps, and others require checking, replying, reacting and thought.

Throughout the day, we aren’t just draining our cell phone’s battery, we are also draining our own battery. We need time for our nervous system to catch up, to take a break and to experience the world around us in a calmer way.

For me, that happened recently when I went to a religious service. I don’t go all that often even though I often walk away feeling refreshed.

These services offer an opportunity not only to disconnect from my phone for several hours, but also a chance to be present, centered, and focused.

The words and the songs are familiar, which other members of the congregation say or sing, helping me feel like I’m a part of a connected group.

During the service, I am focused on where I am, reading the same text as everyone else and reacting, as if by reflex, to some of the interactive speaking parts.

This occurs even when I travel, as I did recently to attend a service. I didn’t know most of the people in the room and yet we reacted and interacted for several hours as if we had grown up next to each other, played on the street with our neighbors, attended the same schools and shared the same hopes for ourselves and our children.

Some of the songs had slightly different melodies, but they were more of a variation on a theme than a journey into another religious, spiritual or musical genre.

During these times in a house of worship, I appreciate and enjoy the quieter voice of some of the speakers, who encourage me to think of myself and my world in different ways and who share a wonderful combination of thought, insight, perspective, and spiritual ideas.

While I listen to them, some thoughts I have that might otherwise not bubble up to the turbulent surface of my life, where a combination of bright sun, wind, and cross currents of thoughts, ideas, actions and deadlines create a potentially exciting but murkier picture, can receive attention.

Through these thoughts, I can make connections to earlier versions of myself, track where I am and where I’m heading, and think about people who helped shape who I am but are no longer in my life.

I can also delve more deeply into the kinds of questions and thoughts that don’t tend to help with an assignment or a deadline, pondering the nature of existence and the meaning of life

I can reflect on the amazing and inspirational people I am fortunate to know, and the exhausting but miraculous gift of our children, who inherit the world we helped shape or alter during the course of our lives.

One image often appears in my mind as I breathe, think and listen during the service: that is of a tree with the words “I was here.” When I was younger, I didn’t understand why anyone would cut into a tree to let the world know they were here.

Over time, I’ve thought about the cave drawings primitive man made, the graffiti that adds color and chaos to our world and those words in a tree in the same way. In those moments, people are declaring, the way Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin did when they planted an American flag on the moon, that their journey through life brought them to this place and time. They are announcing and reaffirming themselves.

I’m not advocating for carving anything into a tree or for painting graffiti. Instead, by sitting, standing and singing together, we are announcing to the other people in the room and to ourselves not just that “I am here,” but that “We are here.” While we might take that for granted much of the time, a religious service gives us the chance to marvel at the wonder of the connections we’ve made and at our existence and all it does and could mean.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

If your daughter or son is about to graduate from high school in a few months, congratulations.

You will undoubtedly reflect on the many wonderful things, and maybe some that were not so magnificent, along the way, as he or she grew up, embraced you, emulated the way you talked, walked or ordered dinner at a restaurant, pushed you away, decided your existence was embarrassing, your breath was intolerable and your voice was like nails on a chalkboard, until he or she rediscovered some of your finer, or at least more tolerable, qualities.

Yes, the relationship between parents and children can and often does move closer and further away. If we’re lucky, the invisible rubber band only stretches so far before parent, child or both close the distance.

Some time this summer, those spectacular people who made you so proud will likely push you away again.

This, from what we experienced and what others have told us, is completely natural and is a way for them to assert their independence and prepare you for the moment you go up to their suddenly empty room and they are no longer in it screaming at you to “Get out, leave me alone, can’t you bother someone else?”

It’s a wonderful, terrible reality when their room is as clean or messy as it was when they left it, with their trophies, ribbons, pictures or abandoned former toys waiting, as if in an animated movie, until a young family who doesn’t mind hand-me-downs revives them.

These graduates will receive advice over the next several months. A graduation speaker will likely offer them important nuggets about being true to themselves, about challenging themselves to do something safe but outside their comfort zone, and about not being afraid to fail.

And a particularly helpful graduation speaker might also urge them to clap for you and for everyone else who made this achievement possible.

The speaker will suggest that they stay in touch with you when they go away. That, as it turns out, is not as easy as it sounds, nor is it a guarantee.

Not hearing from your kids for any length of time can and often is somehow even more challenging than the time they and their friends removed their footwear after a sporting event and made the air so toxic in a confined car that we opened the window in 20 degree weather so we could breathe.

A graduation speaker, friends, and family might suggest that you establish a minimum of a once-a-week call. That is good advice and can and does establish guidelines and expectations for a child you’re sending out into a world with new challenges and, at times, unfortunate temptations.

“Sure, let’s go to a party on Tuesday night. I have a few hours to study after the party before my midterm on Wednesday at 8 am.”

Whoops, bad idea, but they’ll learn that lesson the hard way.

Amid all the other advice or rules parents might give their children before they wish them the best and try to stop picturing them as five-year-olds toddling off with their colorful backpacks into kindergarten is to make sure they stay in regular contact.

The rules we established when our children were four and we didn’t allow them to cross streets without holding our hands might change when they go to college, but we still have an opportunity to create new ones for our children.

No one suggested we encourage our children or our nephews to call us when they were walking to class. And yet, in those moments when they called to catch up, hearing their voices on the way to school, with the sound of birds chirping in the background, gave us an opportunity to connect.

Not only that, those calls helped narrow the geographic distance between our nieces, nephews and children and us while also allowing the rubber band to slacken, bringing us closer to these people we love unconditionally who will, hopefully, one day bring whatever family can attend together to celebrate another graduation.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Health clubs, the gym, whatever you call them, have so much subtext to any visit.

First, I wave at the friendly, supportive people who check me in. I wonder, as they look at me and the photo taken when I got my membership, whether I look better than I did on that day. By definition, I’m older, but am I in one of those better periods or one of those I-just-got-back-from-a-wedding-after-eating-out-too-many-times periods?

As I walk towards my preferred piece of equipment, which is usually an elliptical machine, I hope it’s available.

Sure, there is a line of 17 other elliptical machines that provide the same exercise, but I hope the one that has the best view of the 12 TVs I can barely see when I take off my glasses and that has the smoothest stride as I kick into a higher gear, is available.

If it is, I drape the towel I bring with me — I’m not a huge fan of the non absorbent paper towels available throughout my gym — take a few moments to find the least offensive TV show or music on my iPhone and start pedaling.

As I start working out, the calculator in my head immediately starts to monitor how far I’ve gone and how many calories I’ve burned off for each five minute segment on the machine. I have a specific target I try to meet or exceed, which helps me push harder during the last two minutes of each five minute block. Within about 10 minutes, I’ve built up a good sweat and am starting to drift off into endorphin-boosted bliss, sometimes accompanied by one of Billy Joel’s songs or by a ridiculous Adam Sandler movie I wouldn’t dare put on the TV when my wife and I are getting ready for bed.

My journey into sweaty bliss, however, sometimes takes a detour when someone climbs aboard the machine closest to me, despite the availability of all the other pieces of equipment in the row.

“Can’t you use one of the machines further away?” I shout in my head.

At first, I try to ignore the start of their exercise, diving deeper into my leg pumping, while juggling thoughts about the work I have to do when I’m done.

But then the competitive part of me awakens. A monster version can’t help monitoring the speed at which the person next to me is pumping his arms and legs. Am I going faster? Is he on a higher level than me?

No, it doesn’t matter whether he’s 30 years younger, a college athlete or is clearly preparing for a triathlon with a body that repels any fat and that likely won’t age for decades. I have to win.

Of course, the person next to me isn’t always young and fit and doesn’t have the same age and genetic limitations. Sometimes, that person is not only older, but is also sharing a regular need to clear his throat or to cough without covering his mouth.

“Hey, have you heard of Covid, a tissue, staying home when you’re sick, or, I don’t know, another gym?” I again shout in my head.

I look away and breathe to the side, hoping whatever germs he’s expelling into the air are traveling in a different direction.

Even when people don’t exercise near me, I notice the groaning from the men who lift more weight in a day than I might in a year. They roar, Incredible Hulk style, as they drop weights heavy enough to cause the floor 30 feet away to vibrate sufficiently to register on a seismograph.

When I leave the elliptical machine, I circle other pieces of equipment slowly, as if I were selecting a menu item carefully, pondering whether to get the Brussels sprouts, the steamed broccoli or the french fries.

Who am I kidding, I shrug to myself. I’m unlikely to climb on any of these machines, particularly when I’m so sweaty from beating that young kid to the top of the imaginary mountain.

Covered in sweat, I triumphantly walk slowly out of the gym, knowing I’ve conquered another day of exercise and feeling revived, refreshed, stronger, faster and more alert. Now, if I could just remember where I parked my car.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

We have learned to be impatient. Combining our instant gratification experiences with the information, access and communication at our fingertips, we have less tolerance to wait for anything.

When we find out we’ll have to stand in line for a meal for more than half an hour, we dive into our phones, searching for other nearby restaurants where we can eat within 10 minutes or less.

When we wait on the phone for customer service, we shake our heads, bite our lips, roll our eyes and sigh repeatedly while waiting for someone who encourages us to try the app or to use the automated system next time.

We want life to be at least as good if not better today than yesterday and we want that now. It’s a tough time to have to demonstrate patience and to show that we understand that life involves processes.

When we recover from an injury, we want to look at the damaged part of our bodies and, like Superman, somehow fix it by glaring at it or willing the cells involved in the process to work faster and to allow us to run on a stress fracture in our foot or to self-heal a torn rotator cuff so we can go back out and play tennis or softball again.

It’s tough to celebrate or appreciate small victories because we know where the finish line of our recovery is, where the endpoint of our request is and whatever we want immediately.

Perhaps we need to recalibrate our expectations to understand and appreciate what small wins look like. While we know what we’d like with the end result, we can see small improvements as a way to enjoy the moment and to understand and appreciate how we’re on the right track.

In recovering from my stress fracture, I have been impossibly impatient, staring at the treadmill the way I used to long for an ice cream sundae with hot caramel and chocolate sprinkles.

The treadmill, where I overdid my exercise routine and created the stress fracture, had been a source of relief.

Several times over the last few weeks, I was tempted to see if I could restart my running, only to decide, reluctantly, that I would be jeopardizing my longer term recovery.

Instead, I limited my walking and have appreciated how much better my foot feels when I maneuver around the house. The recovery isn’t complete, but the improvement, which seemed imperceptible at first, is now noticeable.

Recently, on a short walk with my dog, I spoke with a friend whose mother was celebrating a milestone birthday. Paul was frustrated with the lower quality of life that his mother is enduring, as she struggles with her memory and doesn’t enjoy many of the same things, like food and family, that used to bring her pleasure.

Paul wondered at the regular frustration he felt at the incremental losses he, his mother and their family felt each day.

While both my brothers are doctors, as was my father, I have no medical training, which makes it impossible for me to offer an informed opinion on the cognitive and physical processes that occur at the end of people’s lives.

That didn’t stop me from suggesting ways to find small wins each day, which may depend on the mental state of his mother.

At some point, those wins, whether they involve a memory of something meaningful to his mother, a card game that reaches completion, or a song she enjoys hearing can become the focus of a visit, rather than the parts she and they lose, can become the new yardstick for a win.

Impatience for something better immediately is a luxury, as are so many other aspects of life, we take for granted.

When the light turns green, we want to make the light so we can reach our destination. At the same time, a red light can give us a few extra seconds to look at the spring flowers blooming around someone’s house, to hear children shouting with delight as they pile into a car on the way to their youth soccer game, or to extend a conversation that might otherwise end when we step out of the car.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I hope my television is well rested.

Sure, we’ve watched movies here and there. We’ve gone through all the episodes of “Succession.” We’re also looking forward to the next chapters in the Keri Russell political drama “The Diplomat.”

My television, however, gets a different kind of attention during the upcoming baseball season. No, I don’t watch every Yankees game, even though, if I had the time and access, I probably would catch some of each game.

As a passionate Yankee fan, I have glared at the TV, barked at it (well, and the players on the screen at any given time) and even threatened to pick it up and throw it out the window once in a while.

Incidentally, I’ve never damaged a TV during a baseball season, no matter how frustrated I might get at the number of runners left on base, at the manager for taking someone out or at the players for not driving in a runner from third with fewer than two outs.

Long ago, I watched Game 6 of the 1986 World Series, when the Mets came back from a seemingly insurmountable deficit in the bottom of the ninth inning against the Boston Red Sox for a win that sent the series to a final game. Surrounded by gloating Red Sox fans, I watched as the game unraveled.

With my roommate in tow — we were both rooting for the Mets because he had placed a bet he couldn’t afford to lose and, as a Yankees fan, I had to support any team that played the Red Sox — we walked silently out of a room filled with furious fans.

Just before we opened the door to leave the apartment, the TV we had been watching crash-landed at our feet, exploding into numerous pieces. That night, we joined a small band of New Yorkers cheering “let’s go Mets,” while we stayed far from TV projectile range.

In this millennium, of course, the Red Sox have faired far better than both New York teams, winning four titles compared with one for the Yankees and none for the Mets.

Returning to this season, I’m sure I’ll watch the slow motion replay of a pitch that dives well outside the strike zone that will cause one of the monster hitters on the Yankees to look like they are swinging a fly swatter at an evasive insect.

At that point, I’ll tell the TV how I had told the hitter not to swing and that he should have listened to me.

Yes, I will blame the TV for not communicating somehow with the batter that I knew it.

Fortunately for me, the TV will never remind me of the times I instructed the hitter not to swing at a pitch, only to celebrate when that player crushed a game winning hit into the gap in left center field, scoring the runner sprinting home from first.

The TV will undoubtedly also hear me affix blame at its electronic feet when the channel suddenly doesn’t come in, becomes pixelated or freezes just as a critical full count pitch reaches the plate.

I could check online to see what happened, but I’d rather watch it unfold live, excruciating as the result may be when the Yankees lose yet another winnable game.

The TV knows baseball is a wonderful, miserable experience for me on some days, while it’s a miserable, wonderful one on others.

As I watch an enormous Yankees lead dissolve slowly, the TV and I both know that any opponent – even, gasp!, the Red Sox – can still win.

On the other hand, the Yankees can take a few hard punches to their solar plexus and do the same, setting a comeback record.

If you could ask my TV, he’d tell you that I’m nervous about this season. We have a few important parts, but not enough depth, particularly among our pitchers.

My TV knows that the marathon baseball season will be filled with numerous dramatic rises and falls. It also knows my tendency to turn the channel as soon as the other team records the final out against the Yankees.

Fortunately, my TV gets a break during All Star weekend and in November. The TV should fasten its seatbelt. It’s a long and likely bumpy ride between now and then.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

I was in between that state when I’m focused on how tired I am at the gym and when the endorphins kick in, enabling my body to push harder and for longer in the interests of physical fitness and mental health.

When my cell phone rang, I wasn’t sure whether to pick it up. I’ve been getting numerous annoying robocalls from pseudo-people who want to sell me something I don’t want or need. When I ask them to take my name off their lists, they hang up and someone else from the same organization calls me back the next day.

Unless I recognize the number or am expecting an important call, I tend to let voicemail pick up while I disconnect from everything but the rhythm of checking the number of calories I’ve burned and the distance I’ve traveled during each five minute segment on the elliptical machine.

This time, however, the name looked vaguely familiar, so I stopped moving, took out the airpods that don’t work too well and picked up the phone.

“Hi, this is Dan,” I said, trying to control my breathing.

“Who is this?” the person asked.

“Dan, why, who is this?” I thought, as I considered disconnecting and returning to my routine.

“I have a number that my wife wrote down on my desk and I wanted to know who this was,” he said.

That’s when it hit me. The name was familiar because I had written a story a few weeks ago and had reached out to the couple for a comment.

He understood my explanation and asked if I were related to several other Dunaiefs he knew.

“Yup, that’s my mother,” I said proudly, awaiting words of appreciation and praise for what she’s done since she started the newspapers over 47 years ago and become a visible presence in the community.

“And Ivan?” he asked, “That’s your father?”

“Indeed,” I said.

“Well, I knew him many years ago,” he offered. “We worked together.”

I nodded and looked around the room to see if anyone were waiting to use the elliptical machine. Fortunately, no one was hovering.

“So, how is he?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” I replied, not sure I heard him correctly.

“How is Ivan doing?”

I hadn’t been asked this question in decades.

“He died in 1987,” I said, flatly.

“Oh,” he said, “1987?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, we all have to go sometime,” he offered. “Some sooner than others, I suppose.”

After we ended the call, I resumed my exercise. That seemed like a surprisingly flippant thing to say. The older, current version of me was annoyed, while the younger version felt vulnerable.

Once I built up a solid sweat, a broad smile filled my face, leading at least one person to ponder why I looked unusually pleased during physical exertion.

While I knew the man was processing the not-so-new news, I also decided that the person who would have taken particular delight in this slightly absurd conversation was my father.

With my legs pumping away, I shared a laugh with my father, who could make me smile no matter how frustrated or annoyed I was as a teenager.

Over time, I have enjoyed any number of opportunities to connect with people I’ve had the privilege of knowing who have died, sometimes through dreams or by watching, hearing or experiencing something I know they’d appreciate.

Recently, after my mother-in-law died, my wife received a set of wind chimes with her mother’s name inscribed on them. Before we placed the chimes, we rarely had much wind. Now, amid a steady flow of unusual breezes that bring pleasant sounds to our backyard, my wife and I smile at each other.

If we look for it, we can take comfort in the things that help us feel connected to those we’ve lost.

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By Daniel Dunaief

When we are born, the experience is passive, as we don’t suddenly decide, despite what our families might tell us later about how we couldn’t wait to see the world, that it’s time to leave the womb.

Similarly, once we’re outside, we don’t make many choices. We can’t say, “Milk? Again? You don’t have orange juice or maybe a chocolate milkshake?”

The people around us, the customs that define our days and years, the languages we speak and many other factors that shape who we are remain outside our control.

Definitions of normal vary by our circumstances. People who share a single room and one bathroom with four siblings and those with four dogs, three cats, and two parakeets typically accept the conditions around them.

“Everyone has a crazy Uncle Allen and a chatty Aunt Dorothy,” they think. Or, perhaps, “everyone shops for a new wardrobe each year before the start of a school year” or “doesn’t everyone run three miles before breakfast every morning?”

And then, in the journey through life, we get a window into the lives of other people.

When our daughter was about four years old, she visited a friend, who, our daughter reported, drank soda with breakfast and ate candy as a post breakfast snack. “I like soda,” our daughter declared after the playdate. “Why can’t I have it with breakfast, too?”

It’s not just visits to other homes that become eye-opening experiences: we read about people, watch dramas about their lives, and get a sense of what we think we might strive for or reject in our expanding world.

We and our children see our families in a completely different light when we have the opportunity to compare them to the world outside. Sometimes, we not only measure up, but we exceed the limitations of other people’s lives. Our children might, for example, spend time with parents who pay little to no attention to their sons and daughters, barely aware of their comings and goings.

At that point, our helicopter parenting, which made them gnash their teeth every time we asked for more details about the events of their day, upcoming tests, school dances, or tryouts for school plays, might seem considerably less unbearable or even, dare I say it, charming.

Other times, we fall short in ways that even our children recognize is well outside the experience of most people. Some of their friends’ parents might own private jets, have a spare house on the lake, or have season tickets near the front row to watch one of their favorite teams.

Despite the id-driven desire to have similar life amenities, our children, sooner or later, recognize that they shouldn’t expect such lavish luxuries, even if they secretly, or, perhaps, not so secretly, hope to attain them.

And then there are the times when the world outside the family seems like the kind of easy-going, light-hearted, jovial tv show in which they’d like to star as the plucky but successful child.

During those moments, we can ask some questions about what they want or wish for that they don’t have, or that, perhaps, they find too cumbersome. Yes, we tell them, we really are related to that wacky Uncle Allen, but that doesn’t mean our children are going to become like him or that he has no redeeming qualities. Indeed, the search for redeeming qualities in everyone, starting with our own extended family, may help re-inflate our disappointed children.

If the head-to-head match up leaves them wanting something else, we have other options. We can suggest that no one will ever love or appreciate them as much as we do.

We can also suggest that they can use their desire for something more or different to inspire them to work hard for it and to find it for themselves and, if they choose to have one, for their own families.

Hopefully, our children can recognize that, on balance, the things that they considered givens — material, cultural, ethical and otherwise — didn’t drop from the sky, but came from hard work and the best of intentions.

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

A long time ago, I joined a Freshman Outdoor Program trip before the start of college. The venture provided us with a chance to meet other incoming college students, to enjoy hiking, and to ask upper class students who were leading the effort questions about classes, places to eat on campus, and anything else that crossed our minds.

I was excited and anxious about my trek along the trail, in part because I was unaccustomed to relieving myself anywhere other than on a porcelain throne.

Recognizing my trepidation, my father, who sensed an opportunity to tease me, asked in the weeks before my trip how I was going to “poop in the woods.” My fear of taking care of business out in nature was even greater than my concern about my class selection, my choice of major or the unfamiliar roommates I would meet upon my arrival on campus.

In the days leading up to the trip, which lasted about a week, I tried to cut back on my food intake and I planned to use a bathroom with indoor plumbing as often as possible before climbing aboard the Appalachian-trail bound bus. For more than a day, I successfully shut my system down, avoiding the normal routine. Somehow, for close to two days, I managed to eat, carry about 60 pounds on my back, hike up and down mountains, and avoid pooping in the woods.

Then, as if my body refused to obey my stubborn will, I couldn’t take another step. Seeing me freeze on the trail, one of our upper class guides asked me what was wrong. Did my feet hurt? No. Did I need some water or food? No and no. Was I in pain? Yes, but not in the way I wanted to discuss.

I indicated that I had to “use the bathroom.” The guide told the group to stop, at which point I removed my backpack, took the small shovel we used to create our own buried fertilizer, and raced off to the left. How far, I wondered, would I have to go to avoid being seen by my fellow students, but be close enough that I didn’t seem like I was reading the New York Times while awaiting the arrival of the number two train?

With each step, my system recognized that I was getting closer to relieving itself, which meant that I couldn’t go much further without risking soiling myself. I picked a spot that had what looked like poison ivy. Moving over, I found another place that looked nothing like the comforts of home, but would have to do. After I dug a small hole, I squatted. I immediately felt something brush against my right butt cheek.

I turned around quickly and realized, with relief, that it was just a branch.

Throughout the decades that followed, I have put considerable effort into finding a toilet and to avoiding unpleasant restrooms. The search for a relatively clean and manageable bathroom has involved walking into nice hotels in cities around the country and world. 

To my great surprise, the McDonald’s at the Spanish Steps in Rome, which has a surprisingly appetizing-looking pasta bar that we couldn’t get ourselves to sample while in Italy, had remarkably clean bathrooms, which my wife and I used many times while trekking around the historic city.

Central Park, which is improbably spacious and beautiful amid the concrete jungle of Manhattan, has a web page with the locations of public restrooms around the park, although, despite living there for over a decade, I rarely ever used.

Throughout Manhattan, I have searched for restaurants, museums and bars, where the bathrooms don’t become stadium-level sullied until well after happy hour begins.

With the advent of social media, which took off well after I left New York City, I have found several pages dedicated to the process of finding a bathroom, including one called @poopersguide, which has pictures of the facilities.

Recently, I went to a fancier restaurant outside the city. To set the mood, the lighting was fairly dim. An accommodating waiter even came over, took out his iPhone and smoothly shined his flashlight over the menu.

When I excused myself to use the restroom, I came back with a small smirk on my face and was met with expectant looks.

“Well, that was the cleanest restaurant bathroom I’ve ever used,” I laughed. “I was a little concerned about using it. Oh, and I know where we can read the menu next time. The lighting in there was brighter than anywhere in my house.”

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By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Even if you haven’t read the books, the way I did with my son when he was considerably younger, you probably have heard of the series “Diary of a Wimpy Kid,” right?

It occurred to me to ponder the possibility of a diary of an old(er) man. To that end, here’s my first installment and, no, I’m not going to start with “Dear Diary.”

I woke up this morning and I thought, hmm, my foot doesn’t hurt. What a delightful change! And then I stepped on the floor and I was wrong. My foot, which has been bothering me for a few weeks is still painful, despite the pleasant young doctor less than half my age examining it. The friendly technicians, who sent a jargon filled assessment to my electronic account, recognized that there was swelling and suggested a couple of possible options without a definitive diagnosis or conclusion.

Then, an assistant for my doctor called to schedule a time to review my results. She suggested he’d be available some time next week. Next week??? I gasped and tried not to become irrational or overwrought.

“But my foot hurts now. Is there anyone, like, maybe a nurse, who might be able to call me and tell me what to do for the pain or who can provide a first interpretation sooner than a week?”

I used the word “like” to sound younger, even as I was playing the older-man-in-pain card. Unfortunately, it didn’t teleport me to the front of the line.

“Oh, I’ll see what I can do,” she offered, transmitting a Mona Lisa-style tone through the phone line. Is that a smirk behind your voice? Is that the equivalent of a customer disservice line that says “we’re experiencing higher than normal call volumes and we’ll get to you when we can.”

The day passed without any calls from her, from a nurse, or from a doctor. Then, I thought about the people I used to be responsible for on an ongoing basis. How were they doing? Why hadn’t they called? Oh, right, they’re living their lives which is what my wife and I always wanted for them.

I hoped no news was good news, but no news is sometimes no news, until it makes a sudden transition to something that requires support and help or that merits cheerleading.

After reading through emails, I made some work calls. When reaching out to someone I didn’t know and leaving a message, I spelled my name, using the same “N” for Nancy, “E” for Edgar and “F” for Frank that I heard my father say so many times.

How much time in my life have I spent spelling my vowel-heavy name to someone? Realistically, the chance of the letters making it onto the paper in the right order or, more likely, into an electronic message is remote. More often than not, when someone says my name back to me, I say, “yes, that’s right,” even if they “dun arf” or “do vanoff.”

After I checked a few things off the personal and professional list, I scurried over to the gym, where people much younger than I lifted the weight of small Volkswagens, while others did the kind of abdominal exercises that I’d never attempted or considered. As I watched, trying not to let my jaw drop too far, my stomach hurt, signaling to my brain that I shouldn’t even think about trying those exercises … ever!

Later that night, my wife and I took a friend to a local sporting event, where it was cool enough to require a sweatshirt.

Following behind two people using canes as they walked, our friend asked if I thought a cane might help and, if so, whether he should take one from the men in front of us. I smiled and told him that wouldn’t be necessary.

As we approached our seats, a young woman said the two words associated with the name on the front of my sweatshirt, which advertised our son’s school. Three steps past her, I registered what she said and remembered what I was wearing. I considered turning around, but the moment had passed.

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Bill Murray and Angela Paton in a scene from 'Groundhog Day.'

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Yes, I borrowed the headline from the movie “Groundhog Day,” as Bill Murray’s Phil Connors, discusses the weather with Angela Paton’s Mrs. Lancaster in his hotel in the morning.

Weather has always been a potential safe and easy topic when bumping into a neighbor we don’t know well, meeting the parents of a boyfriend or girlfriend, or breaking uncomfortable silences in, say, the office of the school principal or the boss.

These days, however, weather discussions seem to have changed.

Some of that, whether you believe in or are concerned about global warming or not, reflects the reality of several consecutive mild winters.

We have become so accustomed to milder conditions that a sudden drop in temperature or the forecast for a few inches of snow becomes conspicuous, causing us to reach for our heaviest coats, gloves and hats, and to urge others to “stay warm,” even as newscasts often lead their programs with predictions of “as much as four inches of snow.” Heaven forbid!

Back in the day — okay, I wrote it and those words are like nails on a chalkboard (teenagers may need to look up what a chalkboard is) to the younger version of myself — we had long stretches of time when the temperature fell below freezing, or even below 20. We also had real snow days and not these virtual classes amid storms. Not a fan! Let the kids make snowmen and sled down the hills.

Sure, we get periodic bouts of colder weather, but they don’t seem to last as long.

This has lowered the bar and our tolerance for temperatures that threaten to dry out our skin, make our hands numb and freeze our exposed earlobes.

Even, however, when the weather remains mild for long periods of time and we don’t need to talk about something to fill awkward silences, weather has remained a topic of conversation. Why, for example, does a place like San Diego, which has relatively stable weather day after day, need a weather report? They could just run the same graphic each day, with an occasional break to signal a change. 

Weather, however, reminds us that we’re alive and we get to experience some of the conditions of today. Each day’s weather brings a unique backdrop against which we face possibilities, opportunities, and challenges. Two straight days of weather with the same temperature, dew point, humidity and barometric pressure challenge us to find unique parts of the day, as the changing cloud cover or a slight wind acts like unique whirls in the fingerprints of a day. We might be walking down the street when a subtle shift in the weather helps our brain consider a problem from a new perspective. And, even when the weather doesn’t lend a hand, it helps define the moment.

The way the soft early morning light casts a glow on the bare branches at the top of a tree, while the bottom of the tree awaits in flatter light, allows us to celebrate the gift of our senses.

Movie directors use weather not only to create a backdrop or to establish a man-versus-nature themed challenge, but also to reflect the mood of the moment. 

As a main character grapples with the worst of his shortcomings, he may trudge through a rainstorm. When the clouds slowly part, he can reach an epiphany that helps him become a better version of himself.

The weather, with its unpredictable elements and the effect they have on everything in their path, helps us experience the same trees, the same grass, the same car across the street in a different way. A column of light beaming through clouds can offer ephemeral inspiration.

The weather can be an antagonist or a companion, an enabler or a disruptor, and a headwind or a tailwind in our lives.

Then again, it’s also a safe topic when our potential future father-in-law asks us one of many possible questions we’d rather not answer truthfully, if at all. 

At that point, weather becomes a safe topic for chitchat.

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