Ben and Me_ From Temperance to Humility - Cameron Gunn [12]
I had no interest in a diet, being opposed to them based largely on a long-standing history of failure. More than that, however, they seem un-Franklinian. While they do follow the create-a-habit premise, they do it in an unsustainable way. Who, even if they manage to follow a diet for six weeks, is going to spend a lifetime eating nothing but oat bran, salmon, and lentils? No one! Not even the person who created the diet. Not even the mother of the guy who created the diet. “Oh, I’m very proud of Lionel. But lentils? Please, they make me bloat.” No one follows a diet for the rest of their lives. Mostly, they follow them in short, miserable spurts. They feel horrible while they’re on the diet, guilty when they go off of it, and then anxious when they start another one. It’s all too much like a Dostoyevsky novel for me.
Finally, I decided on a simple plan that required no change in the diets of others; no support from friends, family, or coworkers; indeed, almost no change in how I eat. I resolved, as part of the Virtue of Temperance, not to eat between meals or eat after supper. My “diet” during Temperance Week (sounds like freshman week at a Bible college) was simple: I would not snack. That’s it. Nothing else. (Well, I tried to eat more fruit, too, but that was just to set an example for the kids.)
There. Even I could follow such a program of Temperance. Of course, it was not earth-shattering nor did it deserve its own trademarked name; this was no OrganoPath or FiberFiesta. The program did, however, have the benefit of being achievable.
Having decided on a plan, I realized I needed a little mile marker on my virtuous journey. Food being my original sin, I needed to know to what level of Hell it had taken me. I don’t often weigh myself—no one wants to be reminded that he is as heavy as a Smart car—but in the interests of my rush to moral perfection, I stood upon my electronic judge.
As I gazed down over my expanding middle, the little needle edged 250 pounds. I tried changing positions, sucking in, feeling lighter. No good; 250 it was—a depressing way to start a program of self-improvement. Why couldn’t I have read a biography of William Howard Taft or Kirstie Ally?
Day 1: The Journey Begins
Maybe starting the program on a Monday wasn’t a great idea. I probably shouldn’t have sprung it on myself with so little notice. I went to bed a perfectly happy, if morally imperfect, man and woke up to the pressure of beginning a course of commitment that lasts longer than the NHL playoffs. The entire enterprise started wrong-footed. I had resolved to go back to my morning routine of dog walking but quickly fell into my alternative routine of hitting snooze on my alarm clock. By the time I got up, both the dog and I were disappointed with me.
The trick, I discovered from my last adventure with Ben, was not to let early failures get the best of me. Thus, I sat in the relative peace of my downstairs bathroom and read the poems of inspiration. Or in Franklin’s words, I addressed Powerful Goodness! I’m not sure how Powerful Goodness felt being addressed from my porcelain perch, but with three children, several drop-ins my wife was looking after for the day, and a disappointed beagle nearby, it was the only private spot in the joint.
Notwithstanding my initial trepidation, I began to feel better about my chances. After all, Ben was trying to make this easy. He didn’t say, “Abstain.” He said, “Be Temperate.” That’s one of the things I like about Ben and his virtues—he gave himself an out with each one. He didn’t even demand pure, unspoiled Temperance; he qualified his virtue. Don’t eat so much you can’t move, and if you drink, don’t throw up on yourself. These are “virtue light”; I could do them.
And thus it began.
Upon my arrival at work, I was presented with an interesting opportunity to consider virtue and ethics in both a personal and a professional aspect. I spent most of the day dealing with people held in custody