““You’re like a man-sailor.”
That’s a direct quote from everyone’s favourite cyclist-loving photographer, Ryan McLeod. He was referring to the lack of control I have over my potty mouth.
Sadly, the man speaks the truth — although, I’m not entirely clear on the definition of man-sailor. Regardless, offensive expressions escape from my mouth with enough regularity to make a trucker blush. And while I consider my naughty language to be a part of my charm, it’s time for it to freakin’ stop.
So, on Oct. 10, I started a swear jar.
I’ve attempted the swear jar initiative once before. It was something I did on my own, thinking I’d hold myself accountable.
Everything started out peachy, but quickly went south.
It wasn’t long before I was tossing $20s in my jar in anticipation of the horribly unladylike things that were going to escape from my mouth.
The swear jar was a flop, although I did use it’s contents to send myself on a girls trip to Napa Valley. And I cursed the whole damn time I was there.
I remember the first time a naughty word slipped off my tongue.
I was around 14 years old, and my horse had just tossed me over her head and over the fence we were attempting to jump. I landed — hard — on my shoulders. A stream of offensive language flew from my mouth, followed quickly by a plea to my trainer to keep the slip-up between us.
Since then, it’s been fudgin’ downhill.
As much as I’d like to lay the blame on my background riding horses (sometimes “dang” just doesn’t cover it when a 1,000-lb creature is tossing you around), I can’t help but think I need to man up and shoulder the responsibility.
Because my potty mouth has gotten worse.
I notice it when I greet people. When I’m amped up. When I’m making everyday small talk about the freakin’ weather.
Like I said, it’s time.
And for this attempt at self-improvement, I’ve brought the Cochrane Eagle office on board.
By press time, I’ll have nearly completed a week of Operation No Swear. Already I’m five days into the campaign.
And already I’ve run out of quarters.
