Crunch Time

My little sister has recently informed me that she has noticed how much of a potty mouth she has developed. Words fly out of her mouth that she would have been embarrassed to have uttered in public in prior years but the stress of her job and the constant buzz of cursing around her by her male coworkers have taken a toll on her censory abilities. Now that she is acutely aware of how she sounds she has started a self-imposed deprivation program based on Pavlov's theory. First, she started wearing a specific bracelet and ring to work so that every time she sees them she is reminded of her goal to clean up her vocabulary. Then, the hard part: for every foul word that escapes from her subconscious thoughts she will punish herself with ten stomach crunches.

I had to laugh when she told me about this plan. I could just imagine how her days would go over the next few weeks:

"I can't f'...ing believe those assholes. Oh shit, I didn't mean to say f....! That's ten damn, I mean darn, crunches. Oh crap, I just said shit, didn't I? That's twenty crunches."

Never mind that she glossed over a few and by my count she probably should have done at least fifty crunches. The next morning would start out something like this:

"Holy shit, I can't get out of this freaking bed. I am so sore from doing those crunches. How the hell will I be able to work today?" Wincing in pain as she rolls out of bed, she realizes she now has earned twenty crunches to start off the new day. "Crap, I have got to get a handle on this." With shallow breathing and shuffling feet, she walks in to work just in time. Glancing at her bracelet she vows to make it through the morning without further punishment. All goes well until her coworker announces that he has to take a road trip to pick up some parts -code for he's going home for the rest of the day. "That son-of-a-bitch....! No, no, no, what the hel..ck is wrong with me? I have got to stop my mouth. That's thirty crunches and it's not even lunch time yet. God help me. It just pisses me off so much that I work my ass off while he's out screwing around."

Stopping for a moment, she realizes just how hard this endeavor is going to be. She grabs her cigarettes and heads outside to take a break. She calls me for a bit of phone therapy. "Crap, I forgot my lighter. No, crap is not a potty word. I'm thinking more like the F word, you know, the bad ones." She borrows a lighter and as she takes a long draw from her cigarette she contemplates other methods she can add to reach her goal. I suggest a rubber band around her wrist that she can snap to inflict pain instantly whenever she slips up, truly Pavlovian conditioning. She envisions a visit to the hand surgeon as a result and vetos the idea. Maybe a swear jar where she drops in a quarter for each infraction and she has to give the proceeds to those infuriatingly lazy coworkers each day. This goads her into another round and she bites her tongue.

This bad habit may be hard to break but she very well could end up with abs of steel in the process. Good luck Sis!