4-7-8. That is the breathing exercise I do. I do it a few times before bed. Sitting at the edge of my bed while Bill sleeps next to me, I look at the stopwatch on my phone and inhale for 4 seconds, hold for 7 seconds, and exhale for 8 seconds. I think it works.

It might be wishful thinking. I read about it in the New York Times a few months ago and friends had recommended it. And though I canceled my New York Times subscription after their anti-Biden editorial (they say nothing at all about the orange idiot and its constant lying), I still keep up with the breathing exercise.

And I also do it heading to work and returning to the office as my break winds down in the afternoon. I guess it works. It calms the stressful tic I get walking back to the office. On the right side of my face, it acts up. Maybe it looks like I am having a stroke, I’ve never checked because I silently freak out as I walk and focus on counting my breathing.

They mentioned the breathing exercise once on an episode of Ted Lasso and I felt validated as Bill was watching it at the same time. He sometimes asks about it, but as far as I know, he doesn’t do it.

The job was awful again today and no amount of counted breaths made any difference. Schlomo was in as well as the Legume. My tasks were mostly done by midday and I scrambled to find other tasks to fill out the rest of the afternoon.

Some time was spent looking for people who were not in. That is always a possibility. The thing about this job and I’m not sure if I mentioned it before is, that this job was a job I actually enjoyed. Helping 9/11 victims. I’d wake up in the morning, not minding going to work.

There were a couple of times when the clock radio went off with a commercial from this job advising people to get themselves checked out. It got a laugh then, 3 years ago. Now I think I would look for a hammer to destroy the clock radio.

I am filled with dread about going in. I have the 2 strikes against me. I went through the stages of dying, applying them to my work status. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

I am at the acceptance stage and I feel that if they called me in to let me go I would just say ‘Thank god this cruel charade is over’. As far as I know, they don’t know about this here blog and I ain’t gonna tell ‘em. They don’t seem to be the literate type anyhow.

I have no choice but to stay as long as they will have me. The place is now infested with millennials and everything is run to their whims. Being a twentieth-century guy leaves me on the outside looking in, which is how things have been for most of my life.