"With Discipline Comes Freedom"

“With discipline comes freedom.” I believe Jane Fonda is the originator of these words (I’m not sure if she was referring to aerobics, acting or life). Recognizing the truth of the quote, I shared it with my colleagues a few years ago (giving due credit to Jane). Since that time, I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard someone say, “As Margaret says, ‘With discipline comes freedom.’” In spite of my frequent insistence that the words are not mine, people persist in giving me credit. Sorry, Jane.

The fact that anyone would attribute this particular quote to me is ironic at best. Discipline has never been my forté. I am challenged to complete tasks with any breathing room before a deadline (although I consistently meet deadlines, provided they are imposed by others). I am chronically late for appointments by five to ten minutes, always misjudging time in spite of its scientific predictability. And few have ever described me as "orderly", although I support the credo “a place for everything and everything in its place," at least in theory.

When I first started to blog, I asked friends, “How often should a blogger blog?” The answer came back definitively: “It doesn’t matter, as long as you’re consistent.” Hmmmmm…consistent, eh? This could be tricky.

I ignored their words of wisdom, opting instead to blog when I had the time and inclination. Lottery winners are less random. In the past year, I have written 14 blog posts. That’s about one a month, although my schedule is far closer to: Blog today. Skip a month. Blog two days in a row. Skip six weeks.

On the first anniversary of my blog, Jane’s words came back to me like an unrelenting mosquito. “With discipline comes freedom.”

Writers write and bloggers blog – or so I hear. Stephen King is known to spend hours each day writing, not allowing himself the freedom to do other things until he has completed the requisite number of pages (It would seem it’s working for him). In that spirit, I’ve decided to adopt greater discipline as a blogger. Today is the start of my weekly blog – Monday Musings by Margaret. Hold me to it (but please, be gentle about it).

Oh, and just so you know up front, I do reserve the right to take holidays off. After all, “With flexibility comes balance.” That one's mine. You can quote me.

Your cart or mine?

It happens all the time. I'm sure of it. After all, grocery carts all look the same. Well, except for the stuff inside them, but do people really pay attention to that level of detail at ALL points in their shopping excursion? It's easy to wander off with someone else's cart - almost inevitable, really.

After rolling away from the produce section, I make my way to the natural foods section. I throw in some frozen veggie burgers (they're good, really) and tamari almonds. I look down. Who put the ham in my cart? And the broccoli? And where are my berries? The cherry tomatoes are mine, but the rest of the stuff is unfamiliar. Yikes. Somewhere (probably in produce - the scene of the crime), is a lost soul seeking his or her missing meals-to-be. I return to produce and spot him right away - the man looking frantically around by the tomatoes. "Are you looking for your cart?" I ask. "Yes!" he replies, as relieved as if I'd just recovered his wandering child. I apologize sheepishly and grab my things from his cart - veggie burgers, almonds, cherry tomatoes - and transplant them to my cart, not far away.

I finish my shopping and exit the store quickly before anyone else gets hurt. I return home and unpack my groceries - blueberries, raspberries, cherry tomatoes, cherry tomatoes...Oh dear. Somewhere (probably in his kitchen) a man is making a salad, sans cherry tomatoes. Sorry about that, guy. But really, it could happen to anyone.

The hairline between right and wrong

I cheated on my hairdresser.

I can explain. I needed to get my hair cut and coloured and she was unavailable during the times that fit with my schedule. If I was to wait for her, it would be weeks, maybe even months. It’s not like I wanted to turn to someone else. I had no choice. So I did it. I made an appointment with another stylist - at a different salon. I intended for it to stop there. This was absolutely without question a one-time thing. After all, I have a long-standing relationship with my regular hairdresser, Tina, and I had no desire to jeopardize that. I knew I’d have to confess when I next saw her; after all, my hair would be a different colour. However, I felt confident she’d understand when I explained my desperation.

What I didn’t bank on was loving the way the new stylist, Stephanie, did my hair. Sure, I hoped it would be good, but I fell in love - with the cut, the colour, the way I felt leaving the salon. And let’s face it, the salon’s “cut and colour for $46.99” deal didn’t hurt. Still, I wanted to stay true to Tina and our sometimes colour-ful history, and I do love the way she does my hair too. So when the receptionist at the new salon asked if I wanted to pre-book my next appointment with Stephanie, I said "No, thank you." We would part ways here. “You can always make an appointment, then call and change it if something comes up,” she said sweetly, making it difficult to refuse. So I didn’t refuse. I made a follow-up appointment.

Now, here I am. Two hairdressers waiting in the wings, one with whom I have a solid and happy history, another who is a worthy adversary, with lower prices and a salon much closer to my house. What’s a girl to do? Either decision leaves me cutting one person out of my life like split ends, to be swept callously into the dustpan.

It's a decision I don't take lightly. And with the hair affair three weeks behind me, I have just four weeks of growth in which to make the choice.

My lunch is your lunch

After buying my lunch from the cafeteria today (Hawaiian pizza on a whole grain crust), I got on a crowded elevator to head back to my office. Someone I knew boarded the elevator behind me, looked at my pizza slice and commented, "That's not a healthy lunch," to which I responded, "Well, it's whole grain and it's got pineapples on it, which I'm counting as fruit." It was at this point that the guy beside me (a stranger) said (perhaps even defensively), "There's nothing unhealthy about that lunch." That opened the floodgates. The entire population of the elevator considered it an invitation to get involved, discussing in detail the relative health value of my lunch and the various food groups covered off in the pizza slice. As I got off the elevator, I thanked them all for assessing my lunch. We did not, ironically, get into the relative health value of taking the elevator. Oh well. Same time, same place tomorrow.

Study hard.

I drive by a local high school and read the sign on their lawn: "Exams: Jan. 25 to 28 - Study hard."

I imagine the conversation that led to the choice of wording, perhaps in the staff room: "Kids today don't know what it means to study. When we were young, we studied. We studied hard. These kids need some motivation. We need to put something on the sign - something that clearly states what's expected of them. We've always gone with 'Good luck,' which was entirely the wrong message. Let's go with 'Study hard' and wait for the exam results to skyrocket. I don't know why we didn't think of this before!"

And I imagine a student walking or driving past the sign and reading its advice, soaking it in. "My God. Study hard. Why have I not thought of this before? All this time I've been slacking off and skipping class and not studying and wondering why I'm flunking out. It's so clear to me now. I just need to study hard. That's it. I'm cancelling all of my plans, telling my friends I am out for that party on the weekend. I am going to study, study, study. And not just a little. I'm going to study hard, just like the sign says. Someday I'll look back and say, 'That sign changed my life.'"

And I imagine the parent seeing the sign and confronting their teenager after school. "Why aren't you studying for exams?" Their child replies, "These aren't the types of exams you're supposed to study for. They call them 'exams' but they're not 'exam exams.' No one expects you to study for them." To which the parent replies, "Don't you try to pull one over on me, young man. I saw the sign. It says right there in black and white: Study hard."

So to those who chose the wording for the sign, thank you. And to all those students writing exams this week, study hard. And while you're at it, good luck.

Halloween Life Lessons

Every Hallowe'en when I was a kid (I’m sure it’s the same now) I’d go home and separate my candy into two piles – edible and garbage. It’s not that any of my candy had been tampered with or riddled with razor blades; some of it was simply inedible. Thrills gum, bearing a devious similarity to grape chiclets, falls into this category.

I don’t want to be judgemental, but if you give away Thrills gum at Halloween, you are a mean, mean person. The stuff tastes like soap. The funny thing is, it’s not intended to be gag gum. It’s just really horrible tasting gum.

This stuff has been on the market for years, so I have to believe that the company has received plenty of feedback on its flavour. They know it tastes like soap. I saw it in a store recently and I was curious as to whether the company had changed the gum's flavour in the years since I’d had it as a kid. And as I got closer, I saw big bold text, boasting: “It still tastes like soap!”

Interesting marketing strategy, that. “Let’s not fix the problem, let’s capitalize on it.” I’m imagining other companies adopting this approach. Car dealerships bragging: “It’s still a lemon!”, fast food joints exclaiming: "It's still bad for you!" or cigarette companies proudly stating: "They'll still kill you!" (Come to think of it, the surgeon general beat them to the punch on that one).

So the next time you're faced with a problem and you feel compelled to find a solution, you might want to think again, and simply tell people the problem is just not going away. Hey - it's worked for Thrills.

Winter - you can't make me like it.

Winter is coming. Soon. I can’t tell you how much I am opposed to that.

I wouldn’t have a problem if winter stuck to its three-month seasonal allotment. It CLEARLY says on the calendar that winter starts on December 21 and ends on March 21. This is a LIE.

I’ve started to think of winter as an unwelcome houseguest. You get the call in October:

“You’re coming when? Next week? NO. That is NOT going to work for me. You’re not scheduled to come for another 8 weeks… I’m looking at the calendar right now. Do you even OWN a calendar?

“Right. So basically you’re saying there’s NOTHING I can do to dissuade you from coming early. You’ve got your own key and you’re coming in whether I like it or not. Charming."

So you sort of accept that winter has arrived, and it sticks around for a few months, at which point it has clearly worn out its welcome.

So you broach the subject: “So, not to be rude, but when are you leaving?

“Uh huh. You’re not sure. Maybe March, maybe April, maybe May. Super.”

And every year, I fall for the same old trick. There’s a nice day in February or March and I think: This is it. This is the year that Winter leaves early. This is the year that Spring arrives promptly on March 21. Never mind that it has NEVER happened before.

And sure enough, just as quickly as my optimism arrives, it is squashed, trampled, WHITED OUT by a blizzard….followed by rain and freezing rain.

“You’re back. I thought I’d seen the last of you for this year. Are you not tired of all the blustering and the biting and the snowing? Could you NOT give it a rest for another year? Don’t you have friends in Australia you could visit?”

I could stomach winter far more easily if it were equally balanced by my good friend, summer. But oh no, summer breezes in just long enough to make you fall in love and then it’s gone, leaving you heartbroken and cold, wondering how the hell you can possibly be shovelling again.

Winter’s coming. I get it. I can do nothing to influence its arrival or departure. I'll play along, wearing my coat and mitts. But I’ll be damned if I have to like it.