“Next time I agree to do something that I don’t want to do, jump in and rescue me,” I told Hubby.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Tell them something, so I don’t have to do it.”
“I can’t lie,” Hubby said horrified.
“It’s not really lying—it’s a little white lie and they don’t count.”
“Lying is lying,” Hubby stubbornly insisted. “I can’t tell a lie.”
“White lies are not lies,” I insisted. “They’re just a teensy untruth that doesn’t hurt anyone and. . and. . .,” I stumbled, quickly thinking, “not exactly lying because it saves face,” I finished triumphantly.
“Save face?” Hubby echoed. “Isn’t that what my Grandmother use to say when we were kids and did something not acceptable and. . .”
“Yep–my Grandma said the same thing. I think it had something to do with family honour and looking good.”
“If I remember correctly, Grandmother did tell some untruths which she reminded my brother and I that that wasn’t lying. I’m still not sure why when she does it, it’s a grownup thing and when we do it, it’s a lie.”
“That may be,” I argued, but we’re grown-ups now and we can do whatever.”
Hubby’s eyebrows rose to the ceiling and he sighed, “That is the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard. We maybe grown-ups, but a lie is a lie.”
“Okay, picture this scenario. You’re at work and your boss calls you into his office. He knows someone is pilfering the doughnut supply. He wants you to nail the culprit and post his picture on the Wall of Shame. You know who the culprit is and you don’t want to do this. You tell the boss you suspect there was a break-in and the thief was hungry. That’s why there were 1/2 dozen doughnuts missing.”
Hubby looked resigned because he knew where this was going.
“My question is—were you lying about the doughnut thief or would you classified this as a little white lie?” Pausing a bit, I pushed my point forward. “Little white lies are a necessity to keep a balance, a kind of peace, a bit of forgiveness to save face, producing a serene kharma, to. . .” I sputtered to a stop.
“I think this is more a matter of saving one’s dignity. Sometimes it’s a matter of diplomacy. If you asked me which dress looked better on you, I would be diplomatic with my answer. I wouldn’t resort to any little white lies.”
“If one dress made me look a sickly yellow and the other made me look like a ‘hooker’, you don’t feel you need to sugar-coat your answer?”
“No, because I know you would never contemplate a mustard yellow dress or pick an indecently trashy one.”
“If I wore a loose top that made me look 8 months pregnant, would you tell me?”
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“Unless it’s an immaculate conception, a “mini-you’ is not happening. But you would tell me if I look okay before stepping out of the house?”
“Yes, I would. And because you’re my wife whom I love dearly, I won’t sugar-coat the fact that you look terrible. On the other hand, I would tell you if you look totally awesome.”
“Okay,” I said, adding softly, “I love you my Hubby. And, that isn’t a white lie but the absolute truth.”
“Okay then,” he replied, giving me his affectionate bear hug. In my heart of hearts, I knew that was the absolute truth, too.