Monday, February 6, 2012

"Lies Don't Work"

What's worse: Being sneaky or not being good at being sneaky?

I am pretty sure it's worse to suck at being sneaky because you still have a guilty heart, but no pay off, no success.

This morning was a triumph for capital T truth because I tried to be sneaky and the fickle finger of fate smote my head in about 3 different ways. I suffered consequences far beyond the magnitude of my success-- had I been successful, which I wasn't.

Lucky for me, I get to bathe in all the shame that comes from trying to be sneaky and confessing my human frailties to Jeff, who could only laugh in what I would generously characterize as pity.

Every Monday morning I have a doctor's appointment downtown. (Here's a hint: it's not for a torn ACL.) This Monday, it just so happens that the good doctor is out of town, so there was no therapy. I also just so happens that I didn't mention to Jeff that there was no doctor, so I simply proceeded as if there was. I was going about my business in the frenetic haze that is Monday morning at my house. I had a plan and if asked, I would have copped to the truth about where I was planning to go.

No one asked.

So, when I got into the car at 6:50 a.m. I had a little rush of adrenaline sort of like the one I used to get when I would sneak out of my house at night in high school. The heady mix of exhilaration and fear of being caught. (Sadie and Simon, if you are reading this, I never did that. This is all creative writing. I never, ever snuck out and took the car to Kevin McConville's house for a party and most certainly did not ever engage in underage drinking.) Except when you do stuff as a 38-year-old parent that you used to do when you were an 18-year-old jackass, you should probably stop and ask yourself some key questions. For example, you could ask yourself "What the F*ck is wrong with you? Why are you sneaking around like some delinquent adolescent?" Or there is always the obvious, "Why are you acting like Jeff is your parent (or your super ego) when he's your friend and a huge supporter of you taking care of yourself?" (Now you know why I USUALLY go to therapy on Monday mornings.)

But NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. The daredevil in me had a spin class to get to that runs at the same time as my therapy usually meets. It was too perfect. As I looked at the schedule of classes, it felt like a sign from God to see a spin class when I usually am downtown.

"It's meant to be!" I exclaimed to no one, since this was all a secret.

I am flying high as I walk into the gym with exactly 4 minutes to spare for the big, old sneaky spin class. The teacher is already there futzing with her bike. She gives me a polite, "good morning," and I throw on a little Texan and reply, "Sure is. It sure is." I spend the next three minutes checking email on my phone and looking through Facebook articles on Contador and his drug doping scandal. (Does everyone who bikes live a life of moral failure?)

It's getting to be about 7:11 a.m. It seems weird that the class isn't starting. Where's my warm up music? Where's Beyonce and Pitbull and Gaga?

Next thing I know, the teacher walks out of the room and turns the lights off. I thought it was strange, but spin teachers aren't exactly known for their balance and rational actions. By 7:15 a.m. I know that something is amiss. I am alone in a dark cycling studio and the class was supposed to start 5 minutes ago. (Just like the picture above, but without the people and the lights.)

I am loathe to consider what is the only obvious option: The class isn't about to start. In fact, it just ended. That's why the teacher just left. With the sound system in her hands. What the hell did she think I was doing in there?

I admit defeat. I go to the front desk feeling lost and abandoned-- my initial exhileration and rebelliousness completely diminished by sitting alone a little too long in a darkened cycling room. Turns out, the group exercise schedule I was consulting is out of date. Monday's spin class is now at 6:00 a.m. I guess that funny smell in the cycle room really was human sweat.

But it wasn't mine.

I didn't break a sweat this Monday morning. I sat on an exercise bike going about 4 miles an hour and read a book. Then, I decided I had to atone for the sin to my family and get some groceries for a gourmet, recompense meal I planned to cook. When I got home the nanny told me she was not coming in on Tuesday, which means I will put Simon in a Bjorn while I take Sadie to gymastics and just hope I don't konk Simon's head on the parallel bars while trying to keep Sadie from hurtling her body on other children. It's really beneath me to complain about having to take care of my own two children all day long without any help. Wait. No it's not. I think I just did.

I took it as a sign that God didn't enjoy my devious plot, and Divine forces were going to make me pay. It's my own understanding of karma. Losing a babysitting opportunity falls somewhere between losing a limb and losing a lifeline. I smiled to myself thinking about how it's the least I deserve.

My friend Krista once told me that she saw a little girl with a sign that said "lies don't work" in her room. I never forgot it. I have always been pretty slippery when it comes to lies of omission. I don't know what I would have felt if I had actually gotten to take the spin class, and I will never know. Because I don't plan to sneak around anymore. It wasn't worth it.

1 comment:

  1. Christie, You are a fantastic writer and I am loving your blog posts!