Sunday 24 July 8.43am. In the midst of the US presidential election, news breaks that WikiLeaks plans to release 20,000 hacked Democratic Party emails that will likely damage Hillary Clinton’s chances, and enhance Donald Trump’s. I read the relevant passage aloud to my wife, before adding my own searing commentary: “I would’ve thought Assange and Co would have the intelligence to realise …” I suddenly pause.
A ripple of panic pulses through me. Am I complaining?
Over the past five months that question is one that has developed the ability to paralyse me. Why? Because I’m in the throes of what has turned out to be an epic challenge. I am trying to go 21 days without complaining. A self-imposed abstinence from grumbling of any kind: no slander of public figures, no whining about the weather. Nothing.
It’s an exercise that I first heard of while listening to a podcast by Tim Ferriss, the productivity expert and quasi self-help guru. Ferriss in turn discovered it after it was popularised by a new age pastor from Kansas City by the name of Will Bowen. And while I identify neither as a member of the self-help set nor the god squad, I was instantly fascinated by the mission.
The rules are ostensibly simple: put an elastic band on one wrist. Every time you complain, switch it over to the other wrist. Repeat, until the band has remained on one wrist for three weeks.
The simplicity is compelling, but the moment you start it becomes awfully complex. It turns out that “Am I complaining?” can be a very hard question to answer, because what is a complaint? There’s obviously the dictionary definition: an expression of discontent about a person or state of affairs, something like that. But in practise it gets murky. Consider the following three phrases.
- “It’s cold.”
- “Damn it’s cold.”
- “Damn this cold.”
I think we could all agree that (1) is probably not a complaint. Assuming the weather is actually cold, it’s just a statement of fact. And we could reach a similar consensus that (3) definitely is a complaint. But what about (2)? What about (1) said in a slightly whiny tone of voice? What if someone else says (3) and you agree with them?
Or how about this: “I would’ve thought Assange and Co would have the intelligence to realise that a Trump government will not be good for people like him.” Is that a complaint, a pointed observation, or merely the expression of a dashed expectation?
On that particular Sunday morning, I decide it is not a complaint. I turn the page and leave the worn-out hair elastic clinging to my left wrist.
Monday 25 July 11.19am. The following day I meet my wife for coffee. As we approach the cafe, I spot a former colleague waiting at the counter. Let’s call him Gary. I’m not a fan of Gary’s. I mean, I wish him no specific harm. He’s not a bad person – he just has an awful sense of humour. Dad jokes and cries of “Taxi!” when a glass breaks are the cornerstones of his comedic oeuvre. Now I’ll have to endure some of it and, worse, my sweet wife will be subjected to it. For a moment I forget myself. As I spot The Gazmeister I let out a big sigh and two words slither out after it: “This idiot.”
That sentence isn’t even a sentence. It doesn’t have a verb. But the moment I utter it, I know the truth. It’s a complaint. I change the elastic band over and brace myself for some punny pleasantries. It stings, because at that point I was into my fourth consecutive day without complaint. And in five long months of trying, the longest I have gone is six days.
Not complaining is really, really hard. Until you try to stop, you’ve no idea how often you do it. It’s not a question of whether you’re an inherently positive person or a negative one. Complaint is a pivotal part of all conversation – it can be used for good as well as evil. A lot of the time, we complain as a way to connect. A shared moan is a time-honoured technique for relating to a co-worker, fellow traveller or life partner. Who hasn’t felt the warm rush of catharsis that occurs when you discover that someone else hates that thing you hate? Bellyaching is bonding.
So it’s wrong to say that complaints are wholly negative. In fact, some can be extremely positive. In a certain light, you could even view the whole of human progress as the result of complaints. Complaints about slow horses, or polio. Complaints about apartheid, or gender inequality.
We need complaints, and we need negativity. But for me at least, this challenge is not about disputing that fact. Nor is it about worshipping at the altar of positivity. The reality is you can perform some verbal gymnastics that allow you to express negative sentiments without complaining. “This traffic sucks” can become “I would love it if this traffic would clear.”
But in order to do that you’ll need to pause and really think about your choice of words. This is where the challenge becomes fascinating, because you start to realise how little thought we give to what comes out of our gob. The words just tumble out, like goods being looted from a supermarket. By focusing the mind on complaints, you employ someone to work the checkout. And why is that of any benefit? Well, it becomes a sprawling and highly effective exercise in mindfulness.
Mindfulness, in case you missed it, is approaching the status of full-blown fad – pretty impressive for something that is a few millennia old. One description is that it’s the practice of being present in any given moment. If that smells a bit too much like smouldering sandalwood for your liking, try “being aware of what you’re doing and what’s happening around you”.
Buddhists long ago observed what they call the “monkey mind”, the idea that the mind is inherently a bit restless and fidgety. If you don’t give it a clear task, it will either keep a running commentary, or wander off on tangents. Your head becomes filled with an endless, meandering chatter – a din that has been blamed for everything from anxiety to insomnia. The solution, say the Buddhists, is to give the monkey a job. It could be watching your breath come and go (meditation), or it could be keeping a keen eye on what you’re doing (mindfulness).
The claimed benefits are as varied as they are numerous: improved focus, anger management, treatment of depression, lower blood pressure, stress relief, general wellbeing. It’s a laundry list of advantages that has seen mindfulness teachings adopted by everyone from captains of industry to captains of football teams. All sorts are trying to experience the benefits of silencing their simian. There are countless ways to do it, but I’ve found one of the best ways to shut him up is to have him monitor your moaning.
27 July. Mid-morning a colleague and I travel to a meeting in his 2006 Toyota, a vehicle he calls Sonia Kluger, after the Australian media personality. I ask him how he feels now that his people mover has become associated with calls to ban Muslim immigration. He says there’s not much he can do about it. But our conversation has taken a turn, and we make some very pointed observations about Isis and the state of the world. I come dangerously close to complaining, but stop just short.
It’s not until later that evening that things fall apart. Over dinner a family member tells us she’s recently discovered that her former boss underpaid her entitlements. The business is no longer trading, so she’s unlikely to see the money owed. I simply can’t participate in the conversation without making negative comments about the person in question. It occurs to me that if I have any chance of making it to 21 days, I’ll need to recognise these situations immediately, and turn mute.
It’s that recognition that is the hard part though. That’s what makes it so different from other abstinences. When someone breaks their commitment to Dry July, they do so consciously. I’d imagine very few people get halfway through a beer and suddenly remember that they’re meant to be off the sauce. But that is exactly how it is with complaints. By the time you realise a gripe is in the vicinity, it’s usually too late.
5 August. Seven days and counting, a new record. I call the bank about two errors it has made, and manage to correct both without complaining. Instead, I simply state that I “can’t understand” why these things occurred when I was led to believe they would not occur. Sure I sound like a robot, but who cares? I’ve completed a task with a high degree of difficulty. If not complaining were figure skating, the bank call would be equivalent to a triple axel. I might not have shown much grace through the air, but I stuck the landing.
12 August. It’s at this point that I could veer off on a tangent about the general level of whingeing in the world. I could note that social media has amplified gripes about everything from overpriced avocados to sluggish Wi-Fi. I could write about how millennials are profuse whingers, surpassed only by non-millennials when you get them on to the topic of those wretched millennials. I could do all that, but I won’t. That would be a meta-whinge, and I’m 14 days without complaint. I’m into the home stretch and I’m not about to slip up now.
19 August. I took on whining, and I won. Were there some 50/50 calls that went in my favour? You bet there were. But when it’s all said (or weirdly bottled up) and done, I achieved my objective. Thrust into all manner of less-than-stellar scenarios, I summoned the strength to stifle my disapproval. I came, I saw, I concurred. Not only that, I did it at a time when the Pokémon GO frenzy was at its peak.
So how do I feel? Well, unsurprisingly, there’s not some powerful benefit that is unlocked on the 21st day. Rather there is an accumulation. I definitely think my focus has improved, along with general calmness. But perhaps the most noticeable benefit is a greater sense of control. You might think your level of control is just fine as it is – I certainly did – but it can be much better. If you try to stop complaining you’ll see what I mean.
Turning off autopilot is hard to do, and you’ll find those muscles that steer the plane have atrophied. But if you pump them up for a few weeks, the flight becomes more interesting and engaging.
How do I feel? Can’t complain.
Experience: my attempt to go 21 days without a whinge ended up taking six months | Michael Dawson
