Conscientiousness

I like to fancy myself a devil-may-care rebel who’s willing to throw caution to the wind and act out like a madman whenever the opportunity presents itself; you never know what to expect from me; one minute I’m feeding the dog and vacuuming the floor, the next, I’ve knocked back half a bottle of bourbon and am spray-painting graffiti all over my neighbor’s SUV, but really, it’s not like that all: I’m a pretty good boy.

Sure, I get lazy from time to time and sometimes even go two days in a row without shaving, but by and large, I can’t help myself when it comes to doing what I think I ought to; try as I might to be Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, I usually end up a lot more like Andy Griffith in Mayberry RFD.

I’m a dutiful husband and father, pay my bills on time, and make every effort to turn back student papers as soon as possible, even if it means I spend most of Saturday and Sunday standing at my computer grading their essays.

In this day and age of celebrity train wrecks, my inability to end up in the gutter and then in rehab strikes me as out of step with the times; I really ought to be far less conscientious and much more of a burden to those who care about me and indeed, anyone who depends on me even slightly for this or that little thing.

I’m not entirely sure why I’m like this; no doubt it’s at least in part a function of my upbringing; I had a father who worked at least a little bit seven days a week for as long as I can recall and a mom who never ever stopped doing what she did whatever it was whenever it was.

Whether this will be passed on to my daughter, I can’t say, but I’m working on it. Constantly.