Tag: choices

Adaptability and Availability

This was a dumb idea.

That was the first thought to cross my mind as I lay prone on the sidewalk, my outerwear and shoes covered in a coating of ice.

I had decided to go for a midday run in a cold rain, before the temperatures dropped further and the roads froze over. But I’d failed to consider that the sidewalks were already dotted with patches of black ice. And I ended up wiping out on one of those patches.

I landed on my side, with my quad making first impact with the ground. I was fortunate to not have been badly injured. But at that moment, I was too bewildered to recognize how lucky I was.

I looked up to see a pickup truck stopped nearby. The driver rolled down the window and hollered, You OK?

I’m fine, I replied. I’m just an idiot.

The driver nodded and drove away. I got back on my feet and gingerly started the trek back home.

On that 1.5-mile journey, I realized I still had some of my workout left to complete. So, after a pit stop at home, I trudged over to the gym to knock out a few miles on the treadmill.

As I ran in place for a while, free of the elements, I wondered why I hadn’t just headed to the treadmill in the first place. Why had I risked the treachery of wet roads and icy sidewalks.

Of course, I knew the answer to that. My stubbornness and machismo had gotten in the way of sensibility.

I had believed that a consistent routine of outdoor running held the key to my success. If I was to achieve my goals for races and fitness, nothing else would do.

But this mindset had almost cost me bigtime. I would need to be adaptable moving forward.

We’ve all grappled with the dueling forces of adaptability and availability in recent years.

Much of this reckoning was driven by a global pandemic. The health crisis disrupted all the familiar patterns we relied on.

Work, school, and other community locations went from being safe spaces to unavailable ones in an instant. And we were forced to adapt.

Our quick pivot to survival mode drew praise. But once the initial shock wore off, we lost patience.

We had no appetite for adaptability. We yearned for the reliability of all we had ever known before the plague came to our door.

I was well-aware of this sentiment. For I was living it myself.

At the start of 2020, I made myself a promise. I swore that I would run or walk at least a mile outside every day.

The burgeoning pandemic soon threatened to upend all that. I went from commuting to a busy office every weekday to spending 90 straight days away from anyone I knew. I barely shopped, barely drove, and never traveled more than five miles from home during that time.

Still, I held firm to my promise. Even amidst the scare tactics and misguided stories of those days — no, you didn’t need to wipe down your groceries to stay alive — I made sure to step outside and tackle a mile of movement each day. At a time when nothing seemed worth the risk, my availability certainly was.

As the months went on, this commitment only intensified. I started running more often, and for longer miles. Then I joined running groups and took up racing.

My commitment to running had quickly become an obsession. No matter how I felt, or what the weather was, I was going to let my feet hit the pavement.

Availability was a rallying cry. Adaptability was an afterthought.

I had chosen poorly. But not in the way you might expect.

Disrupt yourself before someone disrupts you.

This is a proven maxim in the world of modern business. And we see proof of it everywhere.

General Motors is going all in on electric vehicles. Sonic Drive-In is selling hard seltzer at convenience stores. And Time Magazine is offering vintage editions of its publication as Non-Fungible Tokens, or NFTs.

These businesses are trying to avoid the fate of Blockbuster Video and Kodak. Both of those companies failed to anticipate the ripples of disruption around them until it was too late.

But by undertaking such drastic pivots, these legacy companies are making a point. Adaptability does more than unlock new revenue streams or keep competitors at bay. It also keeps the prospect of availability on the table.

Yes, the world is consistently inconsistent. Weather strikes and recedes, dynasties rise and fall, fads emerge and are cast aside.

Those who treat this delicate two-step as a straight-line sprint finds themselves on a path to nowhere. It’s only by embracing adaptability that one can maintain availability.

This principle has proven itself with Words of the West, which is now seven years old. For 365 straight weeks, a fresh piece of material has been available on the website.

Adding a new article each week is quite a feat. But it’s also a testament to the power of adaptability.

Indeed, some of those articles were written from the road. Others only saw the light of day after some technical issues were resolved.

I needed to be adaptable to achieve the mission. Much like those legacy businesses, I needed to adapt to stay available.

The decision between one factor and the other is nonexistent. The only option is both.

As I write this, I’m working my way back from a running injury.

This injury wasn’t related to my fall on that icy sidewalk. But it did leave me sidelined for eight weeks.

While working my way back, I’ve resolved to be smarter. I’ve stopped tacking on extra mileage for posterity’s sake. I’ve taken rest days when my body yearned for them. And I’ve even moved some of my workouts to the treadmill.

In short, I’ve been adaptable, so that I can continue to be available.

We all can follow this path when it comes to adaptability. In fact, I believe we must follow it.

It’s our only way to keep pace with a changing world. It’s our only recourse for relevance. It’s our only true means of survival.

The days of relying on what got us here are over. We must adapt to move forward.

Let’s get to it.

To The Limit

I could barely walk.

Felled by some bad hummus, I struggled to get up the stairs to my apartment.

I fumbled for my keys and unlocked the door, my face flushed and my body shaking from chills.

Once inside, I went straight to bed. But my sickly slumber was quickly interrupted by an ear-splitting headache.

My condition had suppressed my appetite, and now my body was revolting from the malnourishment.

So, I wearily headed to the kitchen and boiled some hot dogs. Those five minutes of cooking time felt like hours. But eventually, I was able to devour the hot dogs before stumbling back to bed.

At some point in the night, my fever broke. Although drenched in sweat, I felt a modicum of relief.

The next morning, I felt right as rain — albeit a bit depleted. I wasn’t about to have hummus again anytime soon, but at least I’d taken care of myself properly while down for the count.

I had a roadmap for the future. But following it would prove to be a challenge.

Know your limits.

This phrase is ubiquitous.

Most often, it refers to a vice — drinking, gambling, or the like — that can destroy us if not followed in moderation.

But it can apply to a much broader set of contexts as well.

I knew my limits that evening I was holed up sick. But there are plenty of times before and after where I thought I knew my limits, only to discover that I was sorely mistaken.

Sometimes, the consequences of this blunder were made plainly evident. I once ended up in the Emergency Room after passing out from heat exhaustion, for instance.

Other times, blunders are only evident in hindsight. Bad decisions that didn’t truly burn me, but easily could have.

In either case, learning my limits has helped me avoid pressing them. When I feel I’m getting relatively close to the edge, I dial back.

Better to live to fight another day than to go too far, is my thinking.

But such a concept comes with its own opportunity costs. Namely, the ability to grow my potential.

No, it might not be smart to test our limits while ill, while inebriated, or while out in the scorching hot sun.

But there are plenty of other times when it’s beneficial to push ourselves. When the challenges in our midst are nothing more than hurdles to clear.

Sure, we might feel some resistance as we level up. And giving in to that resistance might seem natural.

But if we shut it down in those moments, we’ll forever be restricted to what’s comfortable.

It’s far better to embrace what the psychologist Carol Dweck has deemed The Growth Mindset. That is, the willingness to develop our talents and capabilities through hard work, good strategies, and input from others.

Growth mindset means pushing our boundaries, but with an end in mind. And that’s something my limit avoidance strategy fails to account for.

On a sultry summer morning, I joined a group of people for a run.

I was only planning on going three miles, but the group was going 10. I’d never run that far in my life, and I didn’t feel prepared to change that fact on this day. But I didn’t want to lose face either.

And so, I hatched a plan. I would run with the group for a couple of miles, intentionally make a wrong turn, and then backtrack once everyone was out of sight. No harm, no foul.

For a while, my plan seemed ingenious. But then, several runners in front of me made the same wrong turn I was planning on.

Now, there was no losing the group. Worse still, I’d need to hustle to follow the runners who’d strayed from the route with me. If I faded, I’d lose face once again.

I ended up running the full 10 miles that day, fighting through side stitches during the home stretch. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, but it wasn’t a disaster either.

When I recounted the story at a pool party later that day, a friend urged me to sign up for a half marathon.

You’ve already run 10 miles, he said. What’s 3.1 more?

And just like that, my running adventures were underway.

I’ve since completed three half marathons, improving my finishing time in each. I’ve picked up a ton of speed, topping my age bracket in most races I enter and even finishing Top 3 overall for a few. And I’ve made plenty of friends along the way.

None of this would have happened if my plan to ditch that 10-mile run that day had panned out. Fate got in the way of my tentative nature, with the best of results.

I think about this sometimes while running. My stamina has gone way up since that first day. But there’s still a certain point on long training runs where I fade spectacularly. I go from feeling awesome to feeling awful in an instant. And I dial back.

Is this action a reflection of my own prudence? A willingness to pull back before I suffer the consequences of overexertion.

Or is it a mental block I must overcome? Is my body capable of doing far more than I give it credit for?

I believe it’s the latter. But I still haven’t tested that hypothesis.

That’s on me.

It’s time for us to delineate the limits we set. To differentiate the limits that are real from the ones that exist wholly in our minds.

This requires us to take a step back and truly assess the risks of going too far. And then, to consider how likely those are to occur.

If the chances of an adverse outcome are low, we should push ahead — regardless how scary that potential outcome might be. If not, we should be prudent and dial back.

This is not an easy adjustment to make. I know this as much as anyone.

But hard work is still worth doing, and our future depends on it getting done.

So, let’s get to it.

At Our Disposal

I stared at the menu intensely.

My eyes scanned the text over and over, searching for two words.

Mole enchiladas.

I knew this establishment made this savory dish. After all, I’d ordered it darn near every time I’d come here.

Maybe it had moved to a different spot on the menu. Maybe they’d given it a different name.

But as I searched for the twentieth time, I found no respite.

Finally, I gave in and asked the server for help.

We don’t offer the mole enchiladas anymore, he replied. We changed up our menu.

I scanned the offerings once again, looking for an alternative. And as I did, my mood soured.

Please make a selection.

It’s a simple command. But not always a simple ask.

You see, those four words give us what we want. But not always what we truly desire.

There might be too few options. Or too many.

In either case, the Goldilocks Problem can rear its ugly head. We’re unable to find that option that fits just right.

Such is the quagmire of decision-making. What we’re looking for often fades into the background, usurped by what we have at our disposal.

We go from thriving to settling in an instant. And cognitive dissonance sinks in.

This discomfort permeates our lives. We make more than 35,000 decisions a day, and we likely consider a fair amount of them to be suboptimal.

And yet, we can’t afford to punt on them entirely. No decision is still a choice. And it’s generally the worst one.

So, how do we navigate this quagmire, and somehow get the most out of it? It’s a question that people on all sides of the decision-making process are trying to figure out.

Sheena Iyengar and Mark Lepper are not household names.

If they walked past us on the street, it wouldn’t cause a commotion. And they’re unlikely to be the topics of watercooler discussions.

But perhaps they should. Particularly for one bit of their work.

Back in 2000, Iyengar and Lepper — both acclaimed psychologists — published an academic paper. Its text was dry and dense, but the concept it described was irresistibly juicy.

The paper summarized an experiment the psychologists ran at a grocery store.

Researchers set up a table near the jam aisle at the store. On that table, they put up a sign with a basic offer.

Try a jam sample and get a coupon to save on jam.

This offer was no different than what we might see at our local Costco. Try something and save on buying it.

The mundane sample setup was intentional. But it came with a twist.

On one day, shoppers saw 24 different jam samples on the table. On another, they saw only six.

This change in sample sizes had an impact. People were more likely to take a sample when there were 24 to choose from. But they were far less likely to buy any jam bottle when presented with that many samples. Even the discount coupon was mostly worthless in that case.

What was going on here? Why were people more inclined to try than to buy?

The answer can be found in what academics have called The Paradox of Choice. Essentially, we want infinite options, but can only handle a finite few when making a decision.

The findings of The Jam Experiment, as it came to be called, have reverberated throughout our lives. Most notably, we’ve seen everything from restaurant menus to tech bundles streamlined into a few options.

This is ostensibly for everyone’s benefit. We won’t freeze like a deer in the headlights when faced with infinite options. And because of that, businesses can serve us more efficiently.

Yet, it does lead to a strange dynamic, as both sides of an interaction operate with their hands tied. All too often, our desired choice isn’t on that streamlined list, forcing us to settle. And with this dynamic at play, it’s hard for businesses to get our loyalty.

Several years ago, Elon Musk made a big claim.

Someday, human-driven cars would be outlawed.

In a vacuum, it seemed like a sensible statement. After all, driving is a dangerous activity that can carry deadly consequences.

And yet, it left me in a rage. For I love to drive, and I loathe the thought of such a right being snatched away from me.

I’ve held a grudge against Musk ever since that moment. Regardless of his successes with the electric vehicle giant Tesla or the other ways he’s benefitted society, he’s persona non grata to me.

Of course, there are plenty of others who bristle at Musk’s vision. Oil executives, legacy carmakers, and gearheads — just to name a few.

This diverse group sees everything Musk stands for as a threat to their existence. They’re preordained to be the yin to his yang.

I, on the other hand, am not.

For I am in the middle of the vehicle divide. I can foresee a day when I might drive an electric vehicle. If it’s as practical for me then as driving a gas-powered SUV is now, I’ll make the switch.

But regardless what’s fueling the engine, I want to be able to jam on the gas pedal or hit the brakes. I want that option to be at my disposal.

My anxiety over this matter is real. After all, I’ve seen plenty of other forums where that middle lane has been taken away.

Moderate politicians are practically an endangered species these days. Tales of the everyman have faded from Hollywood and our streaming entertainment. The market for quick-serve eateries has stagnated.

The lessons from The Jam Experiment are at play. The Paradox of Choice has been mitigated, and our decision set has been optimized.

But it’s all gone too far. The options at our disposal no longer suit us. And our only heuristic is which choice we loathe slightly less.

All the while, our selections validate a set of increasingly polarized options. And the fissures in our societal fabric follow.

It’s time to end this viscous cycle. It’s time for the powers that be to lean into the middle ground, and to put better options on the table.

These options might not be glamorous. But they will be representative of our needs and desires. They’ll allow us to stop settling and start loving our choices again.

And in the end, isn’t that what truly matters?

Playing the Cards

The bus came to a stop two blocks south of New York’s LaGuardia Airport and opened its doors. The chilly fall air rushed in, accompanied by the dueling sounds of highway traffic and an airplane taking off.

As I treasured this peaceful moment, I gazed out the window at the house across the street. It was a decent sized home, complete with a garage and a balcony that was now bathed in afternoon sunlight. It seemed like a decent enough place to live — aside from the constant roar of jet engines and whoosh of highway traffic.

“Who would ever want to live here?” I asked myself. “Maybe this is where people in New York get houses on the cheap.”

My mind drifted east, to a home about two miles past the end of the airport’s other runway. That’s where my mother grew up, and where my grandparents lived for 60 years. That modest rowhouse was no stranger to the roar of jet engines either. In fact, as the story goes, the first time my father set foot in the house, he ducked each time he heard a plane overhead.

As I write this, my grandparents’ longtime home is in the process of being placed on the market. My grandfather has passed on, and my grandmother moved into an apartment in Manhattan with my parents a few months ago. The neighborhood has changed too — what was once a majority white is now predominantly Chinese — and this shift has sent housing prices skyrocketing. So, despite my musings, I know that proximity to the roar from Runway 13 doesn’t bring down housing prices.

Still, I posit that living under a flight path is a nuisance. Which leads to a key question: If we make our own destinies, why would we settle for a scenario with unwanted variables?

Much of our decision has to do with playing the cards we’re dealt.

Consider this. From the day we’re brought home from the hospital, the house we live in is just home. As children, we don’t know what all went into our parents’ decision on where to purchase their home, or the hoops they might jump through to maintain it financially.

But as we grow older and move out on our own, we think about things from a more practical perspective. What do we want our living space to look like? What do we want easy access to? Who must we be near to? And — perhaps most importantly — how much can we pay for all of this?

The answers to these questions help determine our actions, even if it means moving to a tiny, overpriced studio apartment with no counter space, or getting a roommate or three.

These situations might be perplexing to me, as I rent a decent sized apartment in North Texas. But if living in New York City — or San Francisco, or Austin or Uptown Dallas — is important to others, they’ll be willing to sacrifice space, privacy, amenities and even peace and quiet. Heck they might not even notice what they gave up in the process after a spell of time has passed.

It all comes down to perspective.

For example, when my grandparents moved into their home in 1957, it was almost considered a move to the suburbs. The home had everything a suburbanite might need — a garage, a nice enough kitchen and access to a highway built under the brand-new Interstate Highway System. The airport was there, but air travel wasn’t nearly as pervasive as it is now, and many of the loudest jumbo jets had yet to be created.

In 2017, it’s expensive to live anywhere in New York City. Yet the demand is there, particularly on the neighborhood level. Even with the small size of my grandparents’ longtime home, and the adjacent noise and traffic issues, someone will pay a premium for it, as it provides access to living in a coveted neighborhood.

Perhaps the people who live in that home two blocks from LaGuardia — the one I saw from the bus — perhaps they have a similar story to my grandparents, where they bought the home generations ago. Or perhaps they’re like the eventual owners of my grandparents’ home, where they found what might seem to the layperson as an untenable location to be anything but. Perhaps members of that family work at the airport, or for the airlines, and location trumps peace and quiet. Who knows.

What I do know is this: When it comes to where we live, and how, not all is how it appears on the surface. It’s a reflection of the hand we’re dealt, and the cards we play.