discipline, self-discipline

I found that discipline touched upon my life in two very different contexts today. First, I woke up early (and by 'woke up early' I mean 'painfully dragged myself out of bed at 7:45') and went swimming, and was inordinately pleased with my own fortitude. The pool was very nice at eight a.m.; there was no one else there, it was already warm outside but not blisteringly hot, and I was able to go to work with the smug satisfaction of someone who has accomplished something which she does not normally do. Self-discipline is a very good thing, although I do not normally practice it because I'm too busy trying to squeeze as many absurd moments out of life as possible, and discipline does not lead to absurdity.

At least, I *thought* that discipline does not lead to absurdity, until I was at work today. I will only touch on the merest insinuations of the conversation that I had at work today, since I know that my nieces read this...but suffice it to say that I had to explain to a very confused, very innocent Indian girl what discipline means in a shockingly adult context, including a discussion about how latex is not merely a type of sap exuded from a tree (which is the definition she had found), but also a material that certain subcultures turn into their own perverse form of haute couture. I'm used to explicit conversations with my friends, but as I attempted to explain the word 'masochist' to the completely uncomprehending stare of someone who had no idea what I was talking about, I felt like every word of my explanation was making the world a slightly worse place.

Tonight, I finished reading the romance novel that I started yesterday; I was supposed to go to bed early, and I was also supposed to call my mother, but both of those noble goals were abandoned after I convinced myself that I would read just one chapter before picking up the phone. One chapter turned into a couple hundred pages, and now the book is done and I need to go to bed immediately. So much for self-discipline. The novel was 'Sylvester', another Georgette Heyer--her dialogue is fabulous, and I just couldn't put it down. It's a shame that I didn't have a cup of tea and some of Claude's cucumber sandwiches while reading the book, since it would have fit the mood perfectly. Rather than dwelling on what is lost, however, I think I shall go to bed.