I heard something shocking the other day.
Dr. Jeffrey Pfeffer, of the Stanford Business School, was on the radio, talking about his new book, “Leadership BS.”
The book makes the startling assertion that lying is an integral, maybe even necessary part of good leadership, with examples from business and politics.
But that’s not the shocking part. The shock came when Dr. Pfeffer said, “The average person tells two lies a day.”
Two lies a day! He must be exaggerating. I am sure it is possible — nay, advisable — to live a life without lies.
“Oh really?” says my beloved. “You think you can go a whole day without telling a lie? How much will you bet?”
“I’ll bet you a $100 — well, $50. My $50 say you’re wrong to doubt me.”
“Do you even have $50 dollars? To quote an ad — What’s in your wallet?”
I take a look. As he suspected, my wallet contains only one expired coupon, a fortune cookie fortune and pocket lint.
But hidden away in the kitchen I have two 20s that were going to cover the evening’s Chinese food delivery. “So I only have $40,” I admit. “But it doesn’t matter, because you’ll be paying me back in 24 truth-filled hours. And now, dinner is on you.”
Before an hour is out, I face my first challenge: a telemarketer.
Usually I’d just hang up, but I asked for this one.“We are following up on a pledge you made at reunion, to the alumni fund.”
Rats! “Um, I know I said that, but I’m right in the middle of paying bills, and I just don’t have the money. Try back in two weeks.”
My husband looks up from where he’s actually working with the bills. “So you’re paying these?” he asks. “I can stop now?”
“I was sharing your pain — it’s not a total lie.”
“You know what? I’m going to let that go.”
“Why, because you know I can do this?”
“No, because I’m certain you can’t. I don’t need to win on points.”
“I’m going to bed. Don’t bother to join me; I’d hate to have to tell you I have a headache.”
The morning brings its own set of challenges. First up is my annual physical. So many questions!
“Do you smoke?” “No.”
“Do you drink?” “No.”
“How many glasses a week?” “Between six and eight, depending who’s buying. I mean, none!”
“How many days a week do you exercise?” “Well, what counts as exercise? Never mind: none.” That, at least, was true!
Back home, I find a letter about renewing my driver’s license. I can do it all on-line (for a fee, plus my eye doctor’s note), as long as I vouch for some facts.
For example, my height, which let’s say is the same, and my weight, which …isn’t. In fact, it’s been a few renewals since I weighed 120 pounds…but so what? It’s not like they’re going to use that number for anything. I figure I’ll admit to just enough so that, God forbid I have an accident and the ambulance guys find me unconscious, they don’t say, “Who is this fat woman driving Judy Epstein’s car?”
No sooner do I finish that than the phone rings. It’s my husband, calling from work. “How are you doing?” he wants to know. “Told any more lies?”
“Counting this call? I have not yet exhausted my quota…” I say, and quickly hang up before I finish the sentence: “…for the week.”
But it was a friend’s plea for help that did me in.
“Judy, it’s reading group tonight, and Almira’s daughter is home from school, throwing-up sick. Can you help out and host, tonight?”
I look around the house — at the piles of clothing and papers that need to be somewhere else; at the dust kitties lounging around on the floor as if they were real kitties; at the sheer number of spoons and glasses I would need to have clean, all at the same time.
“I wish I could,” I answer, putting as much regret as I can into my voice. “I’d really love to help out, but I had some company recently, and they just called to say their youngest seems to have head lice. I’ve been all over the house, but I’m not sure I got them all.…”
“Never mind, we’ll meet at the library,” says my friend. “I’m sure you’re too tired to join us.” And she hangs up.
By now I’ve lost track of how many lies I’ve told. One thing is clear: I am forced to conclude that I am above average!
