Perhaps it was the corrosive nature of the websites I frequented. Maybe it was the inebriated pack of bullshitters I hung out with and our constant blasphemous banter, or the incessant cable-news cycle where frenzied and extreme viewpoints crowd out reasoned deliberation. Then again, it could have been the naked photos I found of my wife with another man that finally sent me over the edge. Regardless of the last straw, an omnipresent cloud of negativity was slowly but surely poisoning my future—and I aimed to do something about it.
Brian Stauffer
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For the past 25 years, I've made my living as a humor columnist, hired to rant wildly about fat-ass Southerners, rabid vegans, sell-out politicos, and closeted Christian fundamentalists. Apparently some of my smart-ass satire was creeping into my personal life, as I recently heard the following words come out of my mouth: "Did you see Tommy last night? Guy was hammered! Though I'd drink heavily if I was married to Sandy, that's for damn sure. I can't fucking believe their marriage lasted longer than mine! Did you check her out? She's lookin' like a combo of William Shatner and Chaz Bono with Down syndrome."
As my pal silently picked at his blackened salmon Caesar, dumbfounded and losing his appetite for my company, it became clear that an internal intervention was needed. I'd become a poor man's Don Rickles, but more vicious. Queen of Mean Lisa Lampanelli had nothing on me: At least she picks on public figures like the Kardashian sisters and Trump. Meanwhile, I was tearing apart my own loved ones.
In an effort to reprogram my brain toward a less foul-mouthed future, I decided to take the radical step of removing all trash talk, mud-slinging, rude riffing, and taunting Tweets from my everyday existence for an entire month. There'd be no more sarcastic smack talk, gossip, pissy texting, or coarse language of any kind.
In my case, trying to simply "be more positive" or some crap wouldn't fly. I was too far gone; it would be like letting Charlie Sheen do in-house rehab. (Wait . . . ) This was serious business, and would require a SEAL Team 6 approach: tactical advisors, military discipline, and, with any luck, one of those really cool invisible helicopters.
WEEK #1
For the first few days I shied away from conversations, not wanting to launch into my customary overly opinionated hyperbole on any one of a thousand subjects, and blow the whole gig right off the bat. Pleasantries with cashiers are easy enough, until someone approaches with a chance for hate-speak: "Did you hear what Sarah Palin said last night about teachers' unions?" I bit my tongue. Literally.
"If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all" is easier said than done. My sister called and wanted to know if I'd had any recent interactions with my wife. "No," I lied, "we're each working on our own shit and giving each other the space we need right now."
Truth was, over the past few months we'd had several screaming powwows, including a Please Take Me Back session followed by a My Therapist Says It Must Have Been Over Before the Affair discussion and the ultimate I'm Struggling with My Feelings conversation. And the chances of us getting back together were already slim (let's just say forgiveness isn't among my Top 10 qualities).
Given that my previous efforts at major life changes—losing 20 pounds, quitting weed, laying off the Jenna Jameson DVDs—have failed miserably, I knew I'd need an experienced sponsor to keep me on task: someone like Dr. Drew, only less egotistical and incompetent. So I called on the most dedicated and fierce influence in my life: my yoga teacher.
If the Dalai Lama and J.Lo had a love child, it would be Dawn Jansen. For 14 years now, this gorgeous and brilliant yoga instructor has twisted me into a pretzel, cured my sciatica, and gently placed positive mantras into my thick skull. Hearing about my grand experiment (and knowing my extensive weaknesses), Dawn understood the need for a game plan.
She arrived at my house with no fewer than a dozen books intended to impart some structure and words of wisdom. "You're not going to be perfect in your practice," Dawn noted in her nonjudgmental yet powerful way, "and there's going to be resistance. But if you ritualize how you go about it and proceed with compassion, you should be all right."
As we reviewed the various scriptures and guidelines, the Buddhist concept of "Right Speech" came into focus. "The first element is abstaining from false speech—basically lies and deceitful speech," Dawn said. I don't do a whole lot of lying (anymore), so I think avoiding flat-out fabrications this month shouldn't be a problem. "The second notion is abstaining from hateful or slanderous speech," she added. Slander: making false and malicious statements about others. Sounded fair enough. "Third element is avoiding harsh words that hurt or offend other people," she continued.
I must have looked dumbfounded. "It's not like you can't say anything negative," Dawn explained. "There is room for straight shooting so long as it's truthful." OK, I'm down. "And finally," Dawn added, "there's abstaining from idle chatter." But idle chatter's my specialty! "You just don't want to get involved in conversations that have no purpose or depth," she clarified. "So, no bullshitting?" I replied. So much for small talk.
