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So, I decided . . . no . . . I resolved to enter upon the course of virtue created and tried by this man of science, this inventor, this philosopher, this diplomat, this writer, this Founding Father.

That brings us back to the sloth. If I was going to do this, I wanted to be able to track my success—to see if I would truly become a better man. So it was that I came to ask my wife (and others, whom you will meet shortly) to describe me so that I would know from whence I was starting. This is what social scientists call the baseline. With such an invitation, my wife called me a sloth. Well, this tree-hanging, all-stomach, once-a-week-pooping (I hope you realize by now this is a metaphor), slow-moving sloth was set to follow in the footsteps of Benjamin Franklin. Thirteen weeks to moral perfection! The Founding Father’s reputation and my own might not survive the effort.

{ Search others for their virtues, thyself for thy vices.}

The Preparations

Either master the devil or throw him out

IF I WAS GOING TO SUCCEED AT FOLLOWING ONE OF HISTORY’S MOST beloved characters on the path to moral perfection, then I needed a plan. Actually, I thought I’d need a miracle, but I decided to start with a plan.

Channeling my inner Sun Tzu, I decided I needed to understand the objective, the enemy opposing me, and the keys to victory. But before I get too far ahead of myself, I think it best to begin the entire program of virtue from a position of honesty. I offer complete disclosure here—no room for half-truths or hidden secrets. Let me deal with my mea culpas up front. If one is to fight the demon of mediocrity, one must at least acknowledge in which foxhole one is cowering. Here goes.

{ By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.}

This was my fourth attempt at starting Franklin’s course of virtues. You might have guessed from my use of the word “attempt” that I had never completed the course. I had not (in the previous three attempts) even progressed past the fifth virtue. That’s three swings and not even a foul tip to show for my efforts. What does it say for my potential moral perfection that I had tried and failed three times? Too bad perseverance wasn’t one of the virtues (or slothfulness—apparently I’d have that one wrapped up).

Indeed, my first try at Franklinism was never intended to be a matter of public record; it was a purely personal venture. I had no intention of writing about the experience. Heaven forbid that I should display my failures for all to see. After my first aborted attempt to remove vice from my life, however, I perceived the value in laying bare my soul (or at least my sins). If I was to fail, why not profit from my lack of achievement? Could greed be a catalyst to moral perfection? So I tried again and failed again. If I wasn’t becoming morally perfect, at least I was gathering fodder for my literary efforts.

At some point, amid the wreckage of failed attempts, it became clear that I needed help. They say the first step is admitting you have a problem. First, as I mentioned above, I needed a plan—more on that later. But more than a plan, I needed some direct assistance. Virtue and ethics are not my bailiwick. I needed someone to lead me through the minefields of Franklin’s virtues. I needed a guide, a sort of ethical sponsor. Of course I had Franklin, but I couldn’t go to him for clarification or an explanation of how his course might translate to the modern world. I needed something more contemporary—a real live coach. I just had no idea who that could be.

And then I got drunk.

Sometime after Failed Attempt No. 3, I attended a work-related conference. There I was, away from home, among my peers, without responsibility. I did the opposite of what any man seeking a path to a more virtuous life should do: I went out with my friends and drank too much. A meal at a local pub with a colleague and a detective from the local police force led to a trip to another pub and then to the conference’s hospitality suite. We made entirely too merry and