It's All About Attitude

I subscribe to the Monty Python "Always look on the bright side of life" way of living.It has helped me through lots of bumpy times.

When I was in my 30's, I spent three nights a week pouring coffee at a Dunkin' Donuts.While it was not what I ever thought I'd be doing, with my children in preschool and kindergarten, and my finances and marriage going south, Dunkies offered income and hours that worked with my situation.I knew that once my children were in full-day school, I could return to work full time. For this brief period of time, however, Dunkin' Donuts fit the bill.

There's really no secret to pouring coffee, but there are secrets to enjoying pouring coffee.As with any job I've ever had, I tried to find a way to make it fun.I have always had a passion for talking with people.Although this did not work for me when I was in elementary school and my teachers wanted a quiet class, in my 30's I could use this love to engage customers by saying something pleasant to everyone who came in.I vowed that their coffee experience would be memorable every time, and the exchange would always be positive.

Every customer who came through the door received a great big smile and pleasant conversation.Now, not every customer who came through the door wanted a great big smile and pleasant conversation, but they got a great big smile and pleasant conversation with their coffee.And soon, even the grumpiest of customers warmed up.

There was this one man, though, who just never smiled.He wasn't a regular customer.He was more of an occasional customer. He never smiled or even acknowledged that you were talking to him.He just ordered his coffee and that was that.Never anything more. Just coffee, thank you.

One day he came in and ordered a dozen doughnuts.He said he was having a meeting at work and needed to bring doughnuts. So, with box in one hand and tissue paper in the other, I asked him what kind of doughnuts he wanted.

"Oh, just any kind," he snapped, as if I was wasting his time. "Give me what other people don't want."

"Okay," I said, "I'll give you the anchovy doughnuts."

I looked at Grumpy Man and got nothing. No smile. No grin.Nothing.I wondered if I'd crossed the line.Is this the end of my short-lived Dunkin' Donuts career?Will I be dishonorably discharged from pouring coffee?I quickly filled his box with an assortment of the most popular flavors (I was already feeling sorry for those people in his meeting), and sent him on his way.The end.Or was it?

My next work day, in came Grumpy Man again.Uh-oh. I gave him the usual smile and pleasant greeting, nervously waiting for him to order his coffee.Instead, he shocked me by offering me a job.Turns out he was a school photographer (how did he ever succeed in getting those kids to smile when he never smiled?) and he was looking for a salesperson to help promote his business, and thoughtI was perfect for the job.He thought I was hilarious! "Anchovy doughnuts," he said, "That's the funniest thing I've ever heard."

As flattering as it was to be offered a job, I thanked him but turned him down.I just couldn't work with someone who wouldn't even give me the guffaw I truly deserved!

2014 1st Runner-Up: Rick G. Martin

When I was nine years old my mother taught me to knit. Being a boy of a short attention span I knit a nine-inch square and never knit again until about five years ago when I turned 55 and needed a quiet hobby that I could do while my wife slept.

You see I had developed an illness that caused extreme itching to the point where I would be awake scratching for periods lasting 48 hours or more. I would scratch myself until I bled and then finally fall asleep from exhaustion. So I turned to knitting in order to keep my hands busy doing something other than making myself bleed.

The doctors couldn't figure out what this illness was nor could they make the periods of itching stop. So I kept knitting--and itching. My skills at knitting kept improving while due to the itching, along with other chronic health issues, my health deteriorated ever more rapidly. My family feared I was dying.

Our daughter was dating, my health kept declining, and the doctors kept scratching their heads while performing more tests and trying different drugs. And all the while I kept knitting.

I feared that my beautiful daughter would wed and I wouldn't be there. I feared never walking her down an aisle. Our family had many open honest talks about what our future might be. I even talked to one of my long-time friends about his taking my place at her wedding. I told him the words I would want him to say in my stead. He agreed while I kept itching and knitting.

I began knitting a wedding veil for my daughter. I spent a year and four months knitting this veil out of very fine silk thread. I could only knit when my health was decent enough that I could sit up and concentrate as much as needed. I inserted 4,725 crystal beads along the way. Each of those beads represented a prayer that I prayed for my daughter and her future husband and family that I felt I'd never know.

I kept itching while doctors kept scratching their heads. And, I kept knitting.

My wife and I made a visit to a hospice. Our daughter and my wife would sit by my side and we'd talk, and cry, and pray. We had friends who came along side us helping with meals, doctor visits, and a myriad of other things. We didn't know what more to do.

My daughter met a young man and fell in love. My wife and I loved him also. I told my daughter that if I was not to live long enough to participate in her wedding that as she wore the veil it would represent my arms enveloping her with her father's love.

Finally there was a new diagnosis and with it a new batch of drugs. My health began a slow turn around. The veil was completed and it lay finished in a drawer for two years.

The young man my daughter had met proposed so my daughter picked up the veil and took it the bridal store to find the perfect dress to go with it. She held onto my arm as I walked her down the aisle and I said the words to her that I had prayed into the veil. She was married on August 10, 2013.

I'm now in better health than I've been in five years. I'm still knitting but no longer itching. The doctors are no longer scratching their heads either.

It is my prayer that if you are in a place of despair that my story might bring you hope--even while others look on and scratch their heads.

2014 2nd Runner-Up: Teresa Bateman

The Perfect Pair of Pedometer Pants

I need to lose weight, but it's hard to know who to trust.

The Internet is next to useless.

Carbs? It depends on who you ask. Protein? Ditto. Eggs? What, are you crazy? Raw foods? Pureed foods? Steamed foods?

One thing experts seem to agree on is exercise. (Drat.) And, to make it easy, they say walking is a pretty good choice.

That's a relief, because everything else seems to require an outfit--some sort of skin-tight, all-revealing costume that is to be worn in a group setting at a gym or pool.

I don't know about anyone else, but it's hard enough for me to contemplate exercise without also having to consider the horror a form-fitting outfit would engender among those around me.

When did we slump away from sweats? Now, THAT was the perfect exercise outfit. Bulky. One size fits none. Those were the days.

But back to walking. You need no special equipment or outfits for that. Ignore those speed-walkers zipping past you in the sprayed-on shorts. (Is that the tattoo of a kitten on her tush?) They'll be out of sight in seconds, thank goodness.

You'll just need good shoes and a pedometer. Pedometers, naturally, come in a variety of shapes, sizes, and functions. There are some that can calculate calories, have GPS, monitor all your bodily functions, and can call 9-1-1 if you collapse on the path. I suspect the best ones might also have an emergency link to the nearest ice cream shop, but that's just wild speculation.

I decided to go for a simple pedometer-one that counts steps. (The very definition of "pedometer.") I was told 10,000 steps a day was a good goal, and it seemed doable. Plan in place, I clipped the machine to my waistband and set to walk.

Within a week of using my pedometer I discovered some important truths:

Pedometers and bathrooms are basically incompatible.

When a pedometer hits the floor of the bathroom stall and beeps, it automatically punishes you by deleting every step you've taken so far that day.

After picking a pedometer up off a public restroom floor you can wash it, and your hands, but a level of trust has been lost that may never be regained.

The person in the next stall, spotting the pedometer on the floor, will giggle hysterically with no attempt to muffle the sound.

A falling pedometer does not always hit tile.

The biggest thing I learned, however, is that pedometers behave differently depending on the pants you're wearing. Clip one to certain high-waisted trousers and you could walk from San Francisco to New York and the pedometer would calmly inform you that you had taken a total of 4,093 steps, assuming no unfortunate bathroom breaks.

Clip the same pedometer onto a pair of hip-huggers (or "muffin-toppers" as I prefer to call them) and merely breathing in and out makes it look like you've hiked to the top of Mount Everest. Twice.

Of course the downside is that you are sporting a pair of pants that tells everyone why you're wearing a pedometer in the first place. So throw on a long bulky shirt to cover the expanse from waist to rear. You know what kind of shirt would work really well? A big sweatshirt!

Unfortunately, I discovered the best pedometer pants in my wardrobe--the ones that gave me the most steps with the least effort--were plaid, green and orange, and bell-bottomed. They engender horror in all those around me.

Well, sacrifices have to be made for health, right? And with exercise it's all about the outfit.