Recently, an ex-boss and current friend told me that what I make up for in writing skill, I lack in discipline. I was appalled. I mean how dare he?! The impudence! Look how often I blog, hit the treadmill and read the whole paper on Sunday!
Or actually, uh, maybe don’t.
Conversely, how often do I Facebook stalk, turn to Wikipedia to improve my understanding of genetic diseases, review Charlie Sheen’s Twitter feed or peruse apartments we can’t afford?
You know what? Don’t answer that either.
Keith, on the other hand, is highly disciplined. He panics if his early-to-bed/early-to-rise schedule is disrupted. He works out three or four times a week even if he doesn’t feel like it. He is a food camel who can eat breakfast and then nothing else until dinner. He doesn’t do anything at work but work.
So it wasn’t surprising last night, on the eve of St. Patrick’s Day, when he expressed some concern about a 7 a.m. conference call scheduled for this morning. He told me he was thinking of doing the one-hour call from our apartment and leaving for the office right after that.
Being undisciplined, I considered that a super-smart idea. Why in the hell would you NOT do the call from the comfort of our own abode? The thought of getting up early enough to shower, shave, read up on Project X and get to work by 7 was just beyond my comprehension. But Keith seemed a bit uneasy.
“If I do that, I probably won’t make it downtown until almost 9.”
“And you definitely need to be there before 9?” I asked, wondering if I would even be awake at 9.
Keith mumbled something that sounded like, “Thoor goopin froomin looky choomins ooft.”
Thoor goopin froomin looky choomins ooft?!
I truly had no idea what he was saying.
“You’re working on a high-profile classified project with a Swedish company and you can’t tell me anything about it or you’ll have to kill me?”
His face implied that this was not, in fact, the case.
Oh well. I guess when you’re disciplined, getting to work before 9 is just an important part of your work ethic.
Or is it?!
A short while later, as Keith set his alarm, I learned that what I’d mistaken for botched Swedish – “Thoor goopin froomin looky choomins ooft” – was actually derived from old Celtic.
“I’ll just do the call from here and hope for the best,” he said with a sigh.
“Okay … but what happens at 9? Why is 9 the cut-off?”
“Nothing…It’s just that they’re giving free boxes of Lucky Charms out at work for St. Patrick’s Day and I’m afraid they’ll run out by 9.”
Now, you may be chuckling, as I still am, or you may feel like this post comes with no literary pay-off whatsoever. But you can’t deny that Keith’s concerns were justified. I mean really, I thank my orange stars, yellow moons, pink hearts, green clovers and yellow cushion-cut diamonds that I married a man so appreciative of sugary breakfast cereals. Lucky Charms are, after all, not only packed with RIBOFLAVIN, but magically delicious.