Ben and Me_ From Temperance to Humility - Cameron Gunn [75]
My desk was similarly clear. I had jettisoned the detritus of ten years of accumulated files, stalled projects, and unwanted mail.
At the risk of sounding like I am bragging (Humility is coming up soon), I was all over Cleanliness. I was feeling virtuous. I had applied Franklin’s virtue, and like a contestant on American Idol, I “made it my own.” My closet, my garage, my computer, and my desk were all cleaner. I was happy. I should have been happy with being happy.
Instead, I was so pleased with myself that, against my better judgment, I let Michelle in on the nature of the weekly virtue.
“Did you notice that I’ve been cleaning?”
“Franklin again?” Her voice betrayed her disregard for my efforts.
“Yes. This week is Cleanliness, so I thought I’d tidy up. You know, clear out the clutter.”
Michelle still seemed unimpressed. “Have you noticed a difference?” I asked.
Michelle looked up, and I knew when she smiled that she had set me up. “Not really,” she answered.
Not really! I had cleaned half the house, donated items to charity, found things I had forgotten that I owned, and made more room for what was left. Not really?
“Ahhh,” I told myself. “She’s just jealous.”
At least she hadn’t suggested I move back into a closet.
And the Air Just Keeps Leaking
By Thursday I was downright pleased with myself. I had found a virtue that was showing immediate results (despite what Michelle might say). Here was a nearly three-hundred-year-old edict that still applied. Here was a precept with meat on its bones. In all my self-congratulations, I forgot Ben Franklin’s Quaker friend, who, upon reading Ben’s list of twelve virtues, proposed a thirteenth: Humility.
In the midst of all my cleaning, I made a quick visit to my doctor’s office to have a prescription renewed. It wasn’t meant to be a checkup—I wasn’t even expecting to see my doctor. As I sat and leafed through a magazine, the nurse came in to take a quick history. This particular nurse is a lovely woman, but working in a busy medical practice, she is focused and all business.
She scribbled on my chart as she asked about my diet, my level of exercise, and my sleep patterns. As she took my recent medical history with a disinterested professionalism, I made several attempts at witty repartee. She seemed immune to my charms. Maybe she was laughing on the inside.
As she went about her tasks, I resisted the urge to tell her of my virtuous exercise. No sense in bragging, the efforts must have been obvious. Finally, she asked me to step on the scale. Confident and full of the knowledge that for more than two months I had been temperate, resolute, and moderate, I inquired whether I should keep my shoes on or take them off. I should have guessed what was coming when she, eyeing me up and down, said, “I would take them off if I were you.”
Now you’ll remember that I started this program at about 250 pounds. Over the passage of the previous couple of months I had attempted to find in Franklin’s precepts the motivation to exercise more regularly, make better dietary choices, and generally adopt a healthier lifestyle. Despite occasional setbacks, I was convinced that, like Cleanliness, I was being at least moderately successful. I hadn’t weighed myself—I was planning on saving that for the end—but I was sure that a little midcourse assessment could only provide the type of positive feedback that seemed to be in abundance this week.
As the nurse, that model of professionalism and Germanic sobriety, adjusted the sliding weights, I anticipated the good news.
“So,” I asked as I stepped off, “what’s the damage?”
Without looking up from her note making, she replied, “Two hundred and forty-five pounds.”
I was stunned. This couldn’t be right, I assured myself. Had not people been telling me how slim I looked? Were people not asking me how I had lost weight? Did I not feel better?
“I’ve been lifting a lot of weights,” I said to the nurse. “Muscle weighs more than fat, doesn’t it?”
She gave me a waiting-room-weary look and mumbled something