Excellence is a Habit

“Excellence is an art won by training and habituation. We do not act rightly because we have virtue or excellence, but we rather have those because we have acted rightly. We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit.”
-Aristotle

Fitness is complicated. (And, as I’ve said before, it’s composite.) There’s lots to get right, an almost endless array of things to consider. But as with most of life, the Pareto Principle, the 80/20 rule, applies. While getting to ‘perfect’ requires tweaking on all fronts, the crucial twenty percent is mostly common sense. The vast majority of us could improve just by doing simple things we already know we should be doing: moving more; exercising hard a few times a week; eating more vegetables and less processed crap.

Of course, none of that is news. So it’s not a knowledge gap that holds us back. Instead, it’s an action gap. We know we should do one thing, really mean to do it, but then do a completely different thing instead.

So how do we bridge that action gap? The usual answer: willpower. We make New Years resolutions, and plan to try harder. We get motivated, and determine to get things done. But decades of research have shown that approach just doesn’t really work. Leaning on willpower is physiologically taxing, and willpower itself is finite. It fades over the course of the day, and eventually wears out. After which we resort back to our old, poor choices. To put is succinctly, behaviors that depend solely on willpower are eventually doomed.

Instead, the more effective approach is to focus on our habits. While building new habits initially takes willpower (and careful thought), too, once they’re baked in, they run on autopilot, regardless of how much or how little willpower and motivation we bring to bear. Consider learning to drive a car. In the beginning, it’s a herculean task, requiring consciously considering an almost impossibly large number of simultaneous variables. (Just ask my parents; when I was learning to drive, I couldn’t manage to spot stop signs while also wrangling the mechanics of the car, and nearly killed us several times by rolling straight through intersections. Sorry mom!) By now, however, driving has likely become a completely ingrained habit for you. One so simple it runs entirely in your unconscious mind. Perhaps you’ve gotten in your car to drive home, and then looked up a moment later to find you were there. You basically blacked out, as your conscious brain turned off, and your habit-based unconscious drove you home.

So, if habits are the answer, what do we know about them?

First, let’s dispense with a myth: that making a habit takes a month, or two weeks, or 90 days. Habits are wildly variable in the amount of time they take to permanently acquire, depending on complexity, emotional valance, and a slew of other factors. Consider also that we perform some habits many times more each day than others. Learning to floss is a once-daily choice. Whereas smoking is something that inveterate smokers do dozens of time in a single day, creating a much more deeply-furrowed behavioral rut.

Regardless, all habits are made up of three parts: a cue, the action, and a reward. The cue is something in ourselves or the environment that triggers the behavior. The action is the behavior itself. And then the reward is something, either intrinsic in the action or that reliably comes as a result, that reinforces the behavior continuing. All sustained habits have all three parts.

When people want to create (or change) a habit, they usually put all their focus on the action: I’ve decided to start going to the gym. But, in fact, the action itself is the least important of the three steps. To successfully create a habit, you need to focus most of your attention on the other two steps.

Let’s look at working out. How could you create a successful cue for that behavior?

Perhaps you can create a time-based cue, or a sequential dependency. “I work out at 6:00am in the morning.” “I work out as soon as I get up.” In my experience, those are both excellent cues. While it’s far more pleasant to work out in the evening, for most of us, it’s too easy to push off evening workouts today, and then tomorrow, and then forever. While I hate working out in the morning, it’s my usual approach, as I know that doing it then is the only way it reliably gets done.

You can also create an environmental cue for your morning work out. The night before, take your sneakers and your workout clothing, and lay them on the floor next to your bed. The next morning, you’ll literally have to step over them to get out of bed. Laying them out the night before also leverages a great trick from behavioral economics: we’re more likely to agree to do hard things in the future than we are to agree to do them right now. Evening you thinks, ‘I should go to the gym tomorrow!’ Morning you thinks, ‘I should go back to sleep.’ Putting your clothes out the night before, then, is a way to let your smarter evening self boss morning you into making better choices.

You can also maximize compliance by making your action small. If you want to start jogging in the morning, don’t shoot for a habitual 30-minute run. Just make the habit putting on your sneakers, walking out the door, and jogging a minimum of ten steps. Like with procrastinating work, the hardest part of most actions is starting them. Once you’re out the door and taking your ten steps, momentum usually carries people forward. But even on days that it doesn’t, by getting out the door and doing those ten steps, you’ll have still further strengthened your new habit. That makes getting out the door easier on future days, so you’re more likely to do so, and more likely to leverage momentum on some of those future passes.

Once you’re done, then you need to reward yourself. Sure, exercise kicks out endorphins, an intrinsic reward, and leads to self-reinforcing physical changes, a good extrinsic one. But in the beginning, when you’re first getting into shape, you mostly just feel like sweaty crap after you work out. So here’s a reward to consider: eat a piece of chocolate. I know, I know; that seems completely counter to the point of working out in the first place. But research backs up the idea. In one study, people who rewarded themselves with a piece of chocolate post-workout were 97% more likely to still be working out thirty days later. More interestingly, 80% of those people were still working out, even thought they’d already stopped eating the piece of reward chocolate. Eventually, the workouts became their own intrinsic reward, or had yielded enough external results to motivate people to keep going. But the chocolate, that clear early reward, was crucial in getting the habit booted up in the first place.

When it comes to building habits, it’s also far easier to piggyback on an existing one than it is to build a new one from scratch.

When people decide to go on a diet, they’ll often try to create a completely new meal plan from scratch, or follow something cribbed from the back of a diet book. Over even two weeks, the compliance with that kind of drastic habit change is abysmal.

However, research from a long-term Harvard study on diet showed that most people actually eat in highly patterned ways. On average, we each tend to eat the same twelve or so meals, over and over again. And we can build on that fact to create a new set of habits that’s likely to actually stick.

Here’s how:

First, draft up a list of your twelve repeated meals. Literally, sit down and write out a list on a piece of paper. (You may have ten or fifteen rather than precisely twelve; the principle applies regardless.) Perhaps you buy a turkey sandwich from that place around the corner some days for lunch, while on other days you order General Tso’s from the same Chinese place on Seamless.

Then, one meal at a time, pull up the menu for the place from which you order, or a recipe related to something you already cook, and try to sketch out a new habitual meal that’s slightly healthier. You can do this iteratively, improving your choices over time, so you don’t have to go crazy right away. For your Chinese order, for example, you might replace your fried General Tso’s with chicken with snow peas, swap the included egg roll appetizer for a cup of won ton soup instead. Sure, you can do better still; but it’s a huge step in the right direction, effortlessly reducing 400 calories in a single meal.

Do that for all twelve of your standard meals, and then carry on your life pattern per usual, simply ordering or cooking the incrementally better alternatives each time instead. The effects compound quickly, and, having tried this with a slew of people, long-term compliance is through the roof.

To recap: habits are super important, and better health depends on making better habits. So give your habits real thought. Consider how to improve the ones you lean on now, and how to build new beneficial ones in ways that are likely to really stick. Getting guidance from people who know about health and habits can help hugely. As can getting support from peers and coaches along the way. But once those new habits are created, they’ll run on auto-pilot. They’re highly durable, and over the long haul will add up do substantial, sustainable results.

Picante

While we were shooting the Israeli documentary, we spent a bunch of time in the village of Sakhnin. Almost every day we shot there, we ate lunch at the same restaurant. The place served lunch Arab style: a first shared course with plate after plate of salads, breads, dips, pickles and olives. followed by a second course of grilled meat or fish.

Each lunch, we’d eat the all pickles and olives they’d brought out. But we’d leave behind the single pickled pepper that always sat on the same plate. After a week or so, the owner of the restaurant started ribbing us about the pepper.

“Too hot for you?” he’d ask, and laugh.

Four or five days later, just to shut the guy up, I ate one of the peppers.

“See,” I said. “Not so bad.”

“Oh,” he replied, “those peppers are only hot to Jewish people. I’ll get you the real peppers.”

He headed to the kitchen, reemerging a few minutes later with two small, green peppers on a plate. They weren’t more than an inch long, but they were the brightest colored food I’d ever seen.

“I’ll do it,” I said, “if Denny will eat one, too.”

Denny was our sound guy, about forty-five years old. He raced motocross, and he had done sound for TV news front-line war reporting. He was the guy sitting in the midst of gunshots and mortar fire, holding a boom mic overhead. If anybody else was stupid enough to eat one of these with me, it was Denny.

“Okay,” he shrugged.

So we toasted each other with the peppers, and then each took a big bite.

I chewed. I swallowed. It was hot, but not so terrible.

And then, about five seconds later, somebody set off an atomic bomb in my mouth.

I looked over at Denny, who was turning redder and redder. My eyes started running. As did my nose.

“Drink milk!” somebody yelled. “Eat some bread!”

But nothing helped. At some point, Denny and I started laughing hysterically about the whole thing. What else could you do?

We laughed and snotted and laughed for about fifteen minutes of searing pain, after which things started to cool down. About ten minutes later, I tried a bite of the original, less spicy pepper. It tasted like vinegar, a sign, apparently, that I’d temporarily blown out my ability to perceive spicy.

Over the following few weeks, the owner of the restaurant treated Denny and me better than the rest of the group. For at least a day, I think my core body temperature was up a degree or two. And, spicy as that pepper was on the way in, it was just as bad on the way back out.

Cupped

About a decade ago, I was producing a documentary in Israel, shooting in little Arab villages up in the north of the Galilee.

The hospitality in the villages was intense, and if we were shooting within a hundred feet or so of someone’s home, the woman of the house would come out with a tray of cut fruit, homemade dessert and Turkish coffee.

On our first day of shooting, we had fruit and coffee in front of one house. We had fruit and coffee in front of a second. But when a woman came out from the third house we had moved in front of, the director and I – both Americans – politely declined.

After she headed back inside, however, our Arab Israeli producer pulled the two of us aside. We had, apparently, badly offended the woman by not accepting her fruit and coffee, he explained. For the good of the group, he made clear, we should certainly accept all such offers going forward.

So, later that day, we had fruit and coffee in front of the fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh house. After seven or eight straight shooting days, we were probably averaging 15–20 stops, sliced fruit and exceedingly strong shots of coffee at each.

At that point, we broke for a weekend, and the director and I headed back to Tel Aviv. Given our early call times while shooting, we took advantage and slept in. Until, at 11:00am or so, we both awoke, feeling absolutely terrible. By noon, we were curled on the floor in fetal positions. It took us until 1:00pm or so to realize that the terrible, terrible migraines were simply symptoms of severe caffeine withdrawal.

Post fix – a few shots of espresso later – we were totally fine. Once we tapered down our daily dose over the next week, all was well. But, to this day, when people tell me they ‘drink a lot of coffee’, I think, you have absolutely no idea what that really means.

How to Speak Australian

Earlier this week, cleaning through a pile of cards in a box in our back closet, I found this:

aussie

Like most college students, I had a fake ID. Except mine was fake Australian.

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My rationale was actually pretty straightforward: any bouncer or liquor store clerk worth his salt had seen literally thousands of IDs from any of the 50 states. But most could probably count on one burly hand the number of Australian IDs that they’d seen. So even a fake that badly botched key details seemed likely to pass muster; after all, who’d be crazy enough to get a fake Australian ID?

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At liquor store registers, the clerk would eye me up and down with rightful suspicion. Freshman year, I weighted 120 pounds soaking wet, and barely looked old enough to drive.

So they’d whip out the book of IDs, searching through for the matching sample, to see how well mine matched. They’d thumb through Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkasanas, then hit California. They’d page back, then forwards, then backwards a few times.

“It’s not a state,” I would say, derisively, in thick Australian accent. “It’s a *country*. A foreign country.”

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The accent helped, obviously. I can’t do it now sober, but a couple of drinks in and the muscle memory returns.

My fake Australian accent was good enough that, most of time, it even faked out real Australians. Though I was aided by the fact that they were drunk, and I was drunk, and perhaps they simply assumed that my wonky accent was due to having lived too long in the US.

Only once, with an Australian bartender, did it not work at all. “Sorry mate,” he said with a laugh, handing the ID back to me.

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I did, on occasion, have to bullshit spectacularly to pull it off. I’d meet Americans who had visited Australia, and who had memories they wanted to share. I hadn’t – and still haven’t – ever actually been to Australia. So, mostly, I’d smile and nod, trying to keep my responses positive but vague.

At one point, I met a woman who was neck-deep in writing her PhD thesis on Australian public transportation. She had a slew of questions for me, wanted to know my experience as a presumed regular user of Melbourne’s buses, trains and trams. So, of course, I pulled answers out of my ass. Hopefully, none of it actually made it into her thesis.

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The real test of the ID was Quality Wine Shop, a liquor store in New Haven not far from my dorm at Yale.

The store was great – excellent selection of wines and liquors, knoweledgable and helpful staff. But they had no patience for under-age drinkers; the wall behind the register was lined by literally hundreds of confiscated fake IDs, pinned up in row after row after row.

Miraculously, my ID even worked there. And, over time, as that became my go-to liquor store, I gradually became friends with the staff. They would give me discounts, throw in extra bottles if we were stocking up for a party. Exceedingly nice.

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The summer between junior and senior year, I turned 21. Which left me with a serious conundrum: what to do about Quality Wine?

Should I continue feigning Australian-ness while shopping there? Switch back to my normal non-accent and hope nobody noticed? Or did I need to come clean? And, if so, how? I had trouble picturing a conversation where I explained that I wasn’t actually the person they thought they’d befriended at all, that I’d secretly been fucking with them the entire time they’d been so nice to me.

Perhaps not a big issue in the scheme of the world. But it seemed big to me. I genuinely lost sleep about it that summer. Which is why, when I returned to New Haven that fall, I was both saddened and somewhat relieved to discover that, priced out by Yale’s increasing retail rents, Quality Wine Shop had quietly closed over the summer, replaced by a gourmet deli.

Size of Dog, Size of Fight

If people look like their dogs, Gemelli was apparently the right choice, as several people have commented that we do somehow look similar.

But as much as we apparently resemble each other physically, it’s in personality that we even more closely overlap. Like me, he’s laid back, overly friendly, and curious enough to get himself into trouble.

And it seems we’re similar in at least one more way. This morning at the dog run, we walked in just in time to see the three largest dogs there – a husky, a flat-coated retriever and a pit bull – neck-deep in a royal rumble in the dead center of the run. As soon as I let Gem off the leash, he immediately took off for the three of them, jumping straight into the middle of the fray.

“Is that little dog yours?” asked the owner of the retriever.

Yes, I told her.

“And he’s how big?”

About twelve pounds.

“Well,” she said, “he definitely has an outsized sense of self-confidence.”

My dog, indeed.

Complements to the Chef

[Ed. note: yes, friends and family who wrote in to correct, I know that the phrase is ‘compliments to the chef’ with an ‘i’. This was an attempt at cleverness – entrepreneurship being a complement to cheffing – that apparently wasn’t so clever after all. Tough crowd.]

Recently, I’ve started to notice how many entrepreneurs are interested in both cooking and photography. Which makes a lot of sense.

Entrepreneurship is basically the art of slogging daily through nebulous victories and vague defeats, for years and years at a time. Successful startups are those where the victories at least slightly outpace the defeats, consistently enough for the edge to compound gradually. Even in today’s world of lean startups, of building minimal viable products and iterating fast and always shipping, the process of slogging and compounding moves excruciatingly slowly. It takes a long time to see anything happen, and an even longer time to see anything incontrovertibly significant – anything big enough to impress your mom or your non-entrepreneur friends.

Like entrepreneurship, cooking and photography are about making something from scratch, and about sharing it with others. Unlike entrepreneurship, they also let you do so exceedingly quickly. Over the course of an afternoon, you can create something that never existed before, yet that’s still good enough to be appreciated by family, friends or the broader world. And it’s not just the immediate validation – that appreciation (or lack thereof) also provides fast and clear feedback to quickly guide iterative improvement.

After a long day of slow slog, it’s hard to explain how very gratifying that can be.

The Devil Inside

Gemelli had terrible gas last night. Terrible. So when he started making meaningful eye contact with me and Jess, we knew what he wanted.

I put a coat and shoes on me, a leash on him, and we both headed downstairs. My plan was to have him poop quickly on a lap around the block, then head back in from the cold; Gem had other ideas.

After fighting it out at the corner for a few minutes – I wanted him to turn up West End Ave., he apparently wasn’t interested – I gave up and told him I’d just follow him.

So he ran across West End, dragging me towards Riverside Drive. I was pretty sure where he wanted to go: the [87th St dog run](http://www.yelp.com/biz/87th-street-dog-run-new-york) in Riverside Park, one of his favorite morning walk stomping grounds.

“I know you like the dog run,” I tried to tell to him, as he pulled me down 88th street, “but your friends won’t be there right now. They’re all at home. Nobody comes to the dog run at 10:30 at night.”

We reached the park, dark and empty, and headed down the winding path and long stairs to the run. As suspected, it was completely deserted.

Still, we went in, and I let Gemelli off leash. He sat down for a minute. Then he took off running, full speed, around the perimeter of the run, howling to the moon at the top of his lungs.

He’s normally a pretty quiet guy – doesn’t even bark all that much – so I wasn’t aware he *could* howl. But howl he did, lap after sprinted lap.

At the end of his fifth or sixth pass, he ran to the dead center of the run, popped a squat, and made the biggest poop of his life.

Finished, he shook himself off, quietly walked over to me. I put his leash back on, and, in the dark, we silently and calmly walked back home.

Lie with Dogs

When we first got Gemelli, he slept in his crate, next to our bed. His bladder still small, he’d wake up every few hours, needing to pee. So I’d carry him down the hall to the kitchen, let him unleash on the wee wee pads we’d laid out in the corner, then carry him back to his crate where he’d promptly pass out.

As he grew, the time between pee excursions extended. Soon, he could hold it all the way from bedtime to six in the morning. On the plus side, that meant I could sleep many more hours interrupted; on the negative, it also meant that his single nighttime pee excursion took place when the sun had already started to come up. So Gem wouldn’t go back to sleep. Instead, he’d cry pitifully and bang the side of the crate until Jess would kick me out of bed, and he and I would head to the living room to half-heartedly play very sleepy games of fetch.

One morning, out of frustration, I came back from his 6:00am pee excursion, and put Gem on our bed, instead of back in his crate. And he rejoiced. He ran a small circle on the covers, licked Jess’ sleeping face a few times to make sure she was alive, and then happily conked out at the foot of the bed.

So a new ritual was born. Each night, Gemelli would sleep in the crate until sunrise or so, then in our bed for the next hour or two.

A few weeks back, however, after we’d dragged him out for a long and particularly stressful day, we let Gem sleep the whole night up with us. Which, in short, was the beginning of the end. He made it back crate-side perhaps twice over the next week, and then has been sleeping with us ever since.

Like in a new relationship, it was initially tough to sleep while sharing a bed. We kicked him onto the floor one night by mistake, then spent the next few nights uncomfortably curled in balls to avoid doing it again. Each time one of us moved, it would set of a chain reaction waking up all three of us.

But, eventually, we got in our groove. Gem has found his primary spots: at the foot of the bed between the two of us, or up at the top of the bed, burrowed in a little cave between our pillows and the headboard.

At 6:30am on the dot every morning, he comes over and starts cleaning my face and hair. Not yet, I tell him. Still time to sleep.

Then, at 7:00am, he comes over and starts chewing on my hands, trying to tug me upright. Still not time to wake up, I say. Thirty more minutes.

And then, at 7:30am, and I mean exactly at 7:30am, he’s back and standing over me, ready to go out. And this time, he means business. If I ignore him for more than a minute or so, he starts to repeatedly punch me in the head until I get up, put both of our jackets on, and take him out.

I resolve each year that I’m going to start waking up earlier, and this year, for the first time in memory, that resolution has stuck for more than a week. If nothing else, Gem’s the best alarm clock I’ve ever owned.

Wiry

A former colleague was engaged in an ugly and contentious negotiation. The counter-party started making personal attacks, but my old colleague needed to close the deal nonetheless; he couldn’t walk away.

So he inked the contract. And he wired the contractually stipulated $100,000. But, in the memo field for the wire, he wrote: “Declare the diamonds at the port.”

For the next year, the recipient was hounded and audited by essentially every finance, banking and customs body in the US government.

Touché.

Oh Say Can You RNC?

As an owner and board member of several companies, I find a lot of the political rhetoric around ‘job creation’ very confusing.

When I’m thinking about whether we need to hire more people at a company, here are the things I consider:

– Is demand for the business’ product or service growing?
– Is the current team having trouble keeping up with that growing demand?

And here’s one that thing that I’ve never even remotely considered:

– What’s my personal income tax rate?

Fellow business owners, are you honestly telling me your marginal income tax rate is what drives your hiring decisions?