Sometimes I use the word "hate" lightly (i.e. I hate popcorn kernels getting stuck between my teeth) but today I am using it in the fullest context of the word...I loathe, despise, and hate discipline.
Not the kind of discipline that comes from breaking the rules, but the kind of discipline that requires me to work hard, consistently, even when I don't want to, with a constant steadiness and vigor at the task set before me. That kind of discipline makes me want to throw up. I blame this on my parents for not forcing us to commit to team sports or piano lessons as small children but instead letting us run around naked, imaginative, happy, free, and unhindered by the social pressures of society to be high achievers. Shame on you. Now I am a ball of creativity and imagination and dreams and passions and I lack the complete capacity to be disciplined about any of it.
Role out of bed, make some tea, watch the wind, read a book, talk to God and then head out for the day...or make my bed? Is this really a question? And no, I cannot do both because making the bed taints the entire process of freedom. When it comes to discipline, in my mind, it is the black hole of my existence.
But dangit I am an adult and I have got to become disciplined at things. For instance, Ryan actually cannot handle the bed not being made so every morning I have to make it with him. And every morning I sigh, drag my feet, huff and puff, and try to use my best puppy dog eyes to get out of it. That never works. It's been six years...I have got to move on.
Yesterday I spent most of my day cleaning the house. The gross kind of cleaning that moms never tell you about for fear that you will avoid marriage on the basis of housework. Scrubbing baseboards, bathtubs, the inside of the refrigerator, oven, and toilets. I was a terribly poor sport. I told Ryan (who, by the way, also cleans the house) that I felt like I was being grounded. Several times I went into his office and flopped on the floor like a nasty little fish or a three year old in the toy store and I begged him to use a credit card to immediately hire a maid. I gagged twice while pulling hair out of the shower. I made a once and for all decision to never use the oven or stove again. And I finished the day by practically demanding that I get rewarded in Mexican food. What kind of adult am I??? What kind of kids will I raise??? They will be lazy demons.
Then there was my sisters college graduation two weekends ago. And if you have been to a college graduation you know that it takes immense discipline to sit through it. Especially this one. It was three hours long, plus my dad made us get there an hour early to get seats, and it was a two hour drive from our house. I woke up at 5:30 am. I was not a happy camper. On top of the obvious drawbacks was the underlying issue of me not being able to sit still for that long without wanting to pull my hair out (and I had a pinched nerve in my back. What kind of 27 year old gets a pinched nerve?)...one hour in I was sighing and rolling my eyes and asking if this was really necessary since she would have no idea if we were in the audience or not and I was being coddled by my mom. Out of no where I seemed to be a total brat who forgot that the day was about my sister. Perhaps if I had more discipline waking up at 5:30 am and sitting for four hours on behalf of a good cause would be a joy. Instead, I felt like Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.
The list goes on. Ryan wanted to walk me through Brookstone tonight to see all of the gadgets and half way through I acted like my life was coming to an end or that I was at least having an asthma attack. I have been trying to work out again and I get several minutes in on the treadmill only to think...dang, this hurts, I think I need to go back home. And I leave. In the past I have even tried to read the classic Richard Foster spiritual disciplines book and I just quit in a state of hopeless resignation. Like the rich man who leaves Jesus with his head hung low because he cannot bring himself to give away all his possessions to the poor, he just knows he sucks. And then there is this blog hovering over my head, and the more it calls to me, the more I feel like it is my 60 year old, jaundice colored, 11th grade English teacher breathing down her hot, stale coffee breath on me, forcing me to write about Uncle Tom's Cabin.
I think it is pretty clear I have a severe problem.
"Hi. My name is Jenny and I have no discipline. I have rejected blogging. I hate making my bed. And lately, I have been prone to internal tantrums."
Ah. I am starting to feel better. Blogger recovery.
And that is my apology, excuse, and confession for the day. I lack discipline and I am trying to find it...well, as long as it doesn't take too long.