When Lying’s Allowed
Posted on June 2, 2006 by jonners99
It’s acceptable to lie when your Great Aunt Mabellina comes to church one day with a new hat.
Now, you don’t mind all of Aunt Mabel’s hats – some match her bright pink dress or look seasonal with fresh flowers, but today she supports one of her more… exotic hats. At one glace you find this new hat better than the lime green mushroom she wore to church last Sunday, but worse than the leopard print bucket she always wears the week of her birthday. At least you know when that one approaches and can brace your self with gritted teeth and a plastered smile for it. Today, however, her hat adds about three feet to her height (and she’s already got the purple stiletto heels on) by way of round wideness and a great swath of lavender gauze draped decoratively across one expanse of purple brim.
“How do you like my new hat?” Aunt Mabel simpers upon seeing you. She places on hand coquettishly on her hip (and seventy-two year old women should not act coquettish) and flaunts her latest statement. She poses for a few moments while your brain pops a gasket at the sight and then tries to fuse itself into something able to respond coherently. All around you the church is filling with people who cast speculative glances at the purple creation. Behind you your mother stabs her finger into your back, reminding you Aunt Mabel wants a reply, and preferably, a positive one.
This is where you have to lie.
“Aunt Mabel!” You cry rapturously, widening your eyes. “You look stupendous! I’ve never seen anything like it!” Ok, perhaps the second part of this confession is not, in fact, a lie, but your gushing enthusiasm certainly is. In any case, anything’s better than that nadir of ugly hats she wore last Thanksgiving, the wintry brown felt cap with an entire stuffed duck pinned atop. Whoever designed that, you felt, ought to be shot, stuffed and pinned onto his own hat.
“You’re a doll,” Mabel squeaks, and unfolds a twenty dollar bill from her purple handbag, pressing it into your hand, giving you a toothy grin. She saunters away, her new hat swaying precariously down the aisle. She seats herself in the front pew where no one will be able to see the preacher because everyone will be able to see her hat.
You tuck the twenty into your pocket and sigh in relief. That’s when it’s acceptable to lie.
