Yesterday, esteemed reader, dear reader, the Magic Mountain would have cleared its throat softly, because it itself knows so much about boredom, time and diversion; but the Magic Mountain was not in the room, only Hans was there, and Hans was the one who always listened.
“In everyday life, hyperfocus often means: creating diversion,” said Dr. AuDHS. “Experiencing time in such a way that it passes quickly – because I am in it. Boredom is the natural enemy of that.”
He looked into the room as if searching for boredom between the armchairs.
“And a surprising trigger of boredom is: lack of organization,” he said.
A few guests twisted their faces as if they had seen a pile of papers.
“A simple example,” said Dr. AuDHS, “and everyone knows it: Filing papers for a few minutes – easy. A huge pile of papers after months – torture.”
He smiled, this time openly.
“Why? Because the pile is not just work. It is mental burden. It is resistance. It is the moment when our brain says: Too big. Too unclear. Too unrewarding.”
He said “too unrewarding”, and you could tell that he knows the word, that he loves it, that he uses it as a diagnosis.
“Organization makes things small,” he said. “Organization makes things doable. Organization makes life more diverting.”
Hans thought of Dr. Porsche’s ritual notes, of the weighed gram amounts, of the evening measurement of the diastole. Organization, yes. Diversion? Maybe. Or perhaps a new form of prison. But Dr. AuDHS now said something that sounded like an answer to that.
“The side effect,” he said, “success. Because those who are organized achieve goals more predictably, faster, more reliably. And because organization creates recurring processes, routines arise.”
He paused briefly.
“Routines are not prison,” he said. “They are freedom. Because they reduce mental burden and create space for what really matters.”
Hans thought: Freedom through routine – that is the sentence that comforts and frightens a deserter at the same time.
“So if I want happiness in the here and now,” said Dr. AuDHS, “organization is part of it. Not as control – but as relief. Not as compulsion – but as a way to be able to breathe again.”
Hans involuntarily breathed more deeply.
“If the meaning of my life,” continued Dr. AuDHS, “includes not only fun now, but also living healthily for a long time, then there is no way around two areas: training and nutrition.”
Here you could hear a kind of expectation rise in the room: the guests had already suspected this, in a resort like this; they were, strictly speaking, not here by chance.
“And fit,” said Dr. AuDHS, “does not just mean looking athletic here. Fit is a combination of endurance and resilience, mobility and freedom from pain, musculature and strength – especially in old age.”
He paused briefly, as if he wanted to give old age the dignity of not being a threat, but a fact.
“I personally,” he said, “have decided for myself: strength training is my core. Because it is intense, clearly measurable, and because it can give me euphoria and focus at the same time.”
Hans inwardly saw Zieser’s hands pushing the plate onto the bar as if it were a sacrament.
“It is simple,” said Dr. AuDHS, “and brutally honest: You lift what you can lift. You grow if you stick with it.”
You could hear a muscle somewhere in the room agree.
“But training is more than sport,” he continued. “Training can also mean: mastering hygiene and health routines, learning stress management, protecting sleep, and consciously working on your own personality.”
Here, esteemed reader, dear reader, Morgenstern should have pricked up his ears, and he did: his face became a shade more serious.
“To reflect,” said Dr. AuDHS, “how we affect people who are important to us. What we should change. Where we are still too impulsive, too hard, too unclear, too comfortable.”
The word “hard” fell like a weight.
“Nutrition, in turn,” said Dr. AuDHS, “is not a dogma. Nutrition is a system that has to work in everyday life: it should promote health, enable enjoyment, calm digestion, strengthen performance – without a permanent feeling of renunciation.”
He looked into the room as if he knew that renunciation sounds like an insult in such houses – and like a longing.
“And here,” he said, “a principle applies that saves a lot of arguments: Not perfect wins. But feasible wins.”
He left the sentence standing as if it were a motto that you could print on mugs – and for that very reason true.
“Anyone who wants to change something today,” he continued, “does not need an ideology. He needs a routine that holds.”
He raised his hand as if he wanted to add:
“And yes: With all this, of course – this is not individual medical advice. Anyone who has health issues belongs in good medical hands.”
Hans thought of Dr. Porsche, of the warm-professional crack in his voice, of the values, of the recommendation of the longer stay. Good medical hands, yes; but also good hands that weigh, that record, that lead.
“I will make it concrete,” said Dr. AuDHS now, and you could tell that he was coming to a point where speech tips into the personal; and this tipping is always risky, because it becomes either embarrassing or true.
