I Have Completed The New York Times Crossword Puzzle Every Day For Six Years Straight and I Have Learned Absolutely Nothing

(Except for a bunch of useless three-letter words.)

On January 22nd, 2018, sitting bored in a hotel room in North Dakota, I completed the New York Times crossword puzzle.

It was a Monday puzzle—the Monday puzzles are the easiest ones of each week—and I finished it in four minutes and forty-one seconds. I finished Tuesday’s in six and a half minutes, and Wednesday’s in just under nine.

Now—two thousand one hundred and ninety-two days later—my streak is still going.

I don’t know exactly where this ranks in the leaderboard of consecutive-crossword-completion streaks, though in an interview with longtime crossword editor Will Shortz last November, the paper noted that “several hundred people — but fewer than 1,000 — have streaks longer than 1,780 days,” so I can presume it’s at least pretty high.

Here’s what I do know.

That six-year streak covers 14.4% of the days I have walked this earth. It covers weekdays and weekends, workdays and holidays, vacations, power outages, bouts of COVID and days where I couldn’t really be bothered to do almost anything but a crossword puzzle—days of chills and fever or just general listlessness. (AGUE, ENNUI).

At an average finish time of nine minutes and twenty-four seconds over those 2,192 puzzles, that’s roughly 20,589 minutes or 343 hours or 14.3 full days spent doing crossword puzzles, time enough to walk between a capital city founded in 1050 (OSLO) and a WWI battle locale (YSER).

You’d think that six years dedicated to something would have an educational value, right? That’s enough time to earn a bachelor’s degree and a master’s degree, enough time to learn the basics of automotive repair, animal husbandry or at least how to use a simple woodworking tool (ADZE). If you dedicate six years to a single-minded pursuit, you should have something to show for it, even if it’s not a professor’s degree. (PHD).

Me? I haven’t learned a damn thing.

I mean—okay, fine. I have learned to differentiate between “Insecure” star Issa, Stephen of ‘The Crying Game’, Bollywood star Aishwarya and Singer Johnny (RAE, REA, RAI, RAY).

I can separate a double-reed instrument from a two-tone treat from a non-dairy spread from a Great Plains tribe (OBOE, OREO, OLEO, OTOE), though I’m not light enough on my feet to do it like some ballerinas (ONTOE).

I can tell a Utah ski resort from a sporty Italian auto, from actress Jessica or actor Alan, writer Leopold or voice below soprano (ALTA, ALFA, ALBA, ALDA, ALDO, ALTO).

Like Taylor Swift, I can work across any historical time period (ERA), and not only can I parse the difference between coaching legend Parseghian, one of the Gershwins and singer Rita (ARA, IRA, ORA), I can accurately sort apart a bailiwick from an opera highlight from singer India. (AREA, ARIA, ARIE).

I remember actress Skye of “Say Anything”—heck, I thought her performance was top-notch. She must’ve taken her ___ day vitamins, because that movie was a real humdinger. (IONE, AONE, ONEA, ONER).

I know reflexively now what nationality a Muscat native is (OMANI), but I really think that Toomer of football (AMANI) needs a better agent, so he can get more frequent billing over the sort of person Will Rogers never met and didn’t like.

(Somali supermodel IMAN seems to be doing just fine, however.)

I’ve learned how to say no, whether it’s an informal refusal, a slangy turndown, a thumbs-down vote or a Dundee denial (NAH, NAW, NAY, NAE).

I’ve gained a great feel for the subtle distinctions between Emmy winner Falco, Grammy winner Gormé, Oscar winner Redmayne, ice cream maker Joseph and Singer Grant (EDIE, EYDIE, EDDIE, EDY, EDDY), but I can’t say as to whether any of them have read a great Icelandic literary work (EDDA).

I’ve managed to hang around long enough to immediately recall the actress Garr of ‘Mr. Mom’, and know that her name isn’t spelled like that of quarterback Bradshaw, nor an empty truck’s weight, inner tubes geometrically, a Whig’s opponent or “The Yankee Years” co-author (TARRY, TERI, TERRY, TARE, TORI, TORY, TORRE) and again, I’m casting a critical eye to the agent of outfielder Hunter with nine Gold Gloves (TORII), because despite those awards, he could never manager to outshine a Shinto temple gateway.

If you’re a normal person—the kind of person who hasn’t dedicated a Senate term’s worth of brainpower to learning esoteric words, I’m sure much of this is Greek to you. It’s Greek to me, too—whether it’s a Golden Ratio symbol, a trident-shaped letter, a Greek X or density symbol in physics, (PHI, PSI, CHI, RHO), but there’s no need for a quarrel, brouhaha or fight (ROW, ROW, ROW), even if that is the best way to get your boat across a narrow stream (RIA).

Are you tired of this bit yet?

Personally, I’m having a lot of fun, no Baloney. I can keep going on about every word for a meadow or Hawaiian garland or summer sign or kind of tide (LIE, LEA, LEI, LEO, LEE) even if I usually see the latter as sheltered at sea which sounds a lot like others, in old Rome or Shawkat of “Arrested Development”, which are only a couple of letters off of an H.G. Wells race, or a 1997 Peter Fonda title role that’s surely been seen by far more cruciverbalists than actual cinephiles over the past 27 years. (ALEE, ALII, ALIA, ELOI, ULEE).

I’ll stop now. I swear. I will sandwich alternative + Stephen King novel + 2009 Pixar Movie and (WRAP, IT, UP).

Huh. I guess I have learned a few things?

Thankfully, none of them are terribly useful, because in true millennial fashion, I have a bad habit of turning my hobbies into jobs. The best thing about getting this deep into completing crosswords is that I’m pretty sure there’s no way I can possibly monetize this OBSESSION.

(Calvin Klein fragrance.)

Hmm. Unless… I started making my own crossword puzzles…

I know just what clue I’ll start with, too: 007’s doctor foe.

(NO.)

—Scott Hines (@actioncookbook)

I want to make it absolutely clear that, despite using this stock image, I would never do a crossword puzzle in pencil. (Getty Images / danielvfung)