The Subtle Pleasures of Being Correct
This morning, I went swimming. My daughter had to leave for school a little earlier than usual, so I arrived at the indoor pool five minutes before eight. Officially, it opens at eight.
An elderly woman was waiting in front of the turnstile.
I asked whether the pool was still closed. She informed me that it wasn't eight o'clock yet. I suggested trying the card reader. Sometimes it lets people in a little early.
She repeated that it wasn't eight.
I took out my card, held it against the reader, and the turnstile opened. As I walked through, she called after me that the clock must be running fast.
She may even have been right. I hadn't checked the clock.
We crossed paths again later. As I was leaving, she wished me an enjoyable swim, though her tone struck me as slightly sarcastic. Perhaps I misread her. But I had the impression that she still disapproved of what I had done. The fact that the turnstile had opened apparently didn't make my behaviour any more acceptable.
The machine had allowed me in. The moral authorities had not.
As I swam, I kept thinking about it.
I should confess that I have trouble with swimming laps in the first place. I prefer lakes, where I can choose my own direction and pace. Even in a swimming pool, I rarely follow the prescribed routine. Perhaps that's why I find people who fit so naturally into established procedures rather fascinating. I'm not sure I could manage it even if I tried.
There are good reasons to follow rules. They make life predictable. They allow us to trust one another, cooperate, and avoid unnecessary conflict. A society in which everyone acted entirely on impulse would be exhausting. I certainly wouldn't want to drive on roads where traffic regulations were treated as friendly suggestions.
Following rules can also be a form of consideration. We sometimes accept restrictions not because they benefit us personally, but because they make life easier for everyone else.
Yet that doesn't explain every form of obedience.
Consider a turnstile that opens five minutes before the official opening time. Nobody suffers. Nobody loses their place. No employee has to make an exception. The system itself grants access.
Why stand there waiting?
Perhaps out of habit. Perhaps out of respect for the rules. Perhaps because trying something unexpected feels uncomfortable.
All perfectly understandable.
But there may be another reason. Following rules can become part of our identity. We no longer obey them merely because they serve a purpose. We obey them because we are the kind of people who obey rules.
And that changes things.
A practical habit becomes a moral virtue. We are disciplined, reliable, orderly, and correct. Others are careless, irresponsible, disorderly, or simply chaotic.
Our own behaviour becomes the standard by which we judge everyone else.
We may even derive a quiet sense of superiority from it. We do things properly. Others don't.
The interesting part is that no actual harm is necessary. The mere departure from a rule can be enough to provoke disapproval. In fact, the absence of harm may make the situation more irritating. If nothing bad happens when someone breaks a rule, what does that say about all the people who have spent their lives faithfully observing it?
Correctness becomes a form of personal capital. It offers recognition, self-respect, and moral certainty. We know where we stand, and perhaps more importantly, we know where everyone else stands.
This reminds me of Pierre Bourdieu's concept of habitus. Much of what we do becomes so deeply ingrained that we no longer experience it as a choice. The way we speak, eat, wait, behave, or interact with others simply feels natural. And because it feels natural, people who behave differently can seem strangely irritating.
Of course, I have no idea whether the woman at the pool thought anything of the sort. Perhaps she was having a bad morning. Perhaps she simply disliked my suggestion. Perhaps her farewell was genuinely friendly. I had known her for all of five minutes, which is hardly enough time for a serious sociological assessment, although that has never stopped anyone before.
But the encounter raised a larger question.
What does a person actually gain from being particularly correct?
William James, one of the founders of American pragmatism, asked about the cash value of our beliefs. He wasn't talking about money. He wanted to know what practical difference a belief makes. What changes in our experience or behaviour because we hold it?
We might ask the same question about our attitudes towards life.
What is the cash value of correctness?
One answer is obvious. People who follow rules generally encounter fewer problems. They avoid unnecessary conflicts with authority, meet social expectations, and earn the trust of others. They rarely have to explain themselves.
That's no small advantage.
But there is also a price. Someone who treats rules as binding regardless of their purpose may miss opportunities, experiences, and freedoms that were readily available.
Such a person may also become uncomfortable with uncertainty. Any departure from the familiar order introduces an element of unpredictability.
And someone who draws much of their self-respect from being correct may even need other people to be less correct. Without the disorderly, the disciplined person would simply be someone with a personal preference for order. Hardly the foundation of a satisfying moral identity.
That's a curious kind of virtue: one that gains some of its value from disapproving of others.
Then again, perhaps I'm being unfair.
Some people find genuine peace in fixed rules and routines. They don't have to question every decision, weigh every alternative, or constantly reconsider how things should be done. They've found an order that suits them. They may even be happier than those of us who keep looking for alternatives.
That, too, is a perfectly respectable cash value.
Not everyone experiences freedom as the ability to do something different at any moment. For some, freedom may mean no longer having to decide what to do.
And who says the person who questions every rule leads a better life? Constant questioning can become exhausting. We can become just as attached to our independence as others are to their discipline. And just as smug about it.
Perhaps the committed rule-follower and the passionate rule-breaker have more in common than either would like to admit. Both have ideas about how life should be lived. Both occasionally wonder what's wrong with everyone else.
Still, one question remains.
Eventually, our lives end. Whether anything follows is anyone's guess. The idea that we might receive some cosmic reward for good behaviour is comforting, but I see little reason to believe the universe keeps particularly careful records of who followed the rules.
I doubt there is a special section in heaven for people who never entered a swimming pool before its official opening time.
So what remains of all that correctness?
Perhaps the relationships we built by being reliable. The people whose lives we made easier. The satisfaction of having lived according to our convictions.
Those are worthwhile rewards.
But what about correctness that serves no apparent purpose, helps nobody, and exists mainly to confirm our image of ourselves as correct people?
Is that still a virtue? Or merely a habit we've mistaken for one?
I don't know.
I wouldn't want to live in a world where nobody took rules seriously. But neither would I want to live in one where the existence of a rule was considered sufficient justification for obeying it.
Perhaps the distinction lies in whether we treat rules as tools or as ends in themselves. Whether we follow them because we understand their purpose, or invent a purpose because we're accustomed to following them.
There may be a certain art to knowing when to obey a rule and when to disregard it without making a moral drama out of either choice.
Although that already sounds suspiciously like another rule.
As I left the pool, I thought once more about the woman at the turnstile. She had her reasons for waiting until eight. I had mine for trying the card.
In the end, we both went swimming.
But she had one advantage over me.
She could enjoy not only her swim, but also the satisfaction of knowing that she had entered the building at the correct time.