Some people seem to be able to bend rules of morality to their whim. Get undercharged for the blouse at Macy’s? Score! Blatant lies to mom about why you’re not coming to the next family drama-fest holiday dinner? No prob. Their karma and their consciences go unscathed.
That would not be yours truly. I tread a very narrow path that is only as wide as white lies about the relative attractiveness of your new haircut or no more than ten minutes late on a parking meter. If I stray past these boundaries the universe takes a metaphoric ruler to my cosmic knuckles and makes me suffer. Under the radar I am not. I don’t know what caused my blip to be so large, but, along with my rump, it seems to be so.
So let me tell you a good reason not to lie: you will end up in a broom closet.
I lived and worked in England for two years. I met all kinds of amazing people from all manner of incredible places. But I did not – while I was there – stumble across too many fellow Americans (that I had not married or given birth to). So imagine my surprise one day at the hospital to hear a new resident doctor speak in an accent just like mine.
“Are you from North America*?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m from the States.” She answered.
“Me too!” I happily replied. “Where are you from?”
“Montana,” she answered.
“Oh, beautiful there,” I said.
“Have you been?” She asked.
And here is where our heroine falls from grace. Gets herself in a pickle, a bind, a jam, a tight spot, if you will. I have never been to Montana. I have never set foot anywhere near Montana. I don’t even think that in a plane I have flown over Montana. But, thinking somehow that my compliment will be less sincere if I have not set my two hazel eyes upon the fair state, I say:
“Sure have.”
If only it had ended there. If only I had hijacked the conversation by blurting out, “I’m from California!” or, “I wear a D cup!” or, “I believe in leprechauns!” I might have been saved. But I was already shell-shocked by what I had done and so I stood there, deer in the headlights, easy victim for the next foray.
“Where abouts?” She asked.
“Huh?” (Or some equally articulate sound that stupid lying people make when trying to buy time.)
“Where in Montana did you go?”
“Uhh…not sure exactly. We were driving to…” My mind is now groping furiously for some place it would not be totally irrational to be going to/from if one were driving and somehow ended up in Montana. Geography is NOT my strong suit.”…Wyoming.” And I’m hoping at this point that I have not said the equivalent of, “We drove to Topeka by way of Guam.”
“Oh, were you on <insert highway number that made no sense to me and could have been Pi for all I was able process in that moment beyond relief that I had not said something institutionally insane>?”
“Couldn’t tell you, I was mostly in the back seat.”
So now, not only have I lied about having been to Montana, but I have invented a fictional road trip to explain it. And I know that if I end up stuck in this conversation much longer that I will undoubtedly fabricate a boyfriend, a girlfriend, a fictitious affair and an ugly scene outside of Vegas wherein I set fire to all of my (imaginary) boyfriend’s (make-believe) clothing.
I beat a hasty retreat.
The resident was at our hospital for three months. And I was so terrified of having to pick up the thread of my lie that whenever I saw her coming down the hall I would duck into the loo. Except one time when, rendered illiterate in a fit of panic, I bolted into a broom closet.
Only I was in England, so it was really a broom cupboard.
* I managed to greatly offend a Canadian by asking if they were American upon hearing their accent. I did not mean to offend them, but really, we share an accent, there are 30 million Canadians and 300 million Americans, the odds are 10-to-1 that the accent in question is coming from an American mouth. Occam’s razor – you hear galloping, it might be a zebra, but it’s more likely a horse. But, I had no wish to offend any kindly Canadian people I might meet, so I changed how I asked the question.
