I love sitcoms.
My husband and I use Seinfeld quotes in our daily conversations. We’re still grieving that Go On was cancelled after one awesome season.
But I do tend to get irritated when a huge and crazy situation happens simply because someone won’t admit the truth.
Doesn’t the truth set you free? If he/she/it would just be honest, everything would be fine!
Right?
Except that one time, I wasn’t honest.
I remembered it the other day when I glanced up from my Bible study time at my ultra-cluttered dining room table and saw this:
It was a week-old bologna sandwich. I knew it was a week old because my son had forgotten to take his lunch to school the week before.
Let’s not discuss the fact that it had been sitting unnoticed on a cluttered table for a week, or that my kids eat bologna. It had and they do.
Instead, I’ll tell you a story where I behaved in exactly the same manner as the sitcom characters that get on my nerves.
I had graduated from college in December, but didn’t move to Thailand until the following fall. In the spring after I graduated, I worked as a substitute teacher until I was hired as an aid in an early childhood special needs class.
I loved that job. I loved the four ladies I worked with and the kids. I just generally enjoyed every day there.
I especially loved when we would run out to lunch together. There was a morning class and an afternoon class, so we actually had a lunch break (unlike many teachers).
I brought my lunch one Friday. I remember it as a bologna sandwich (although I don’t remember eating bologna sandwiches at that time in my life).
Whatever.
Anyway, someone suggested we go out to lunch and I thought that was a great idea. I never even thought about the uneaten bologna sandwich when I left school that day.
Then, on Monday morning, I walked into the room to find all four ladies frantically searching for a dead animal.
Something had crawled into the classroom over the weekend . . . and died.
And rotted.
It stunk.
Y’all . . . it stunk bad.
(Incorrect grammar used with purpose for effect.)
I was equally concerned. I thought of the dear sweet children. Sweet children who might find this carcass if we did not find it first.
Sweet children who might . . . touch it.
I searched as well. I remarked about the stench.
I followed my nose.
To my desk.
To my own bologna sandwich. Last Friday’s bologna sandwich.
So I . . .
Snuck it out of the room and flushed the sandwich down the toilet.
And then . . .
Returned to the room to keep searching for the stench that was mysteriously beginning to diminish.
I have no idea . . .
why . . .
I couldn’t tell them.
Really. I wonder to this day why I felt I couldn’t let anyone know it was MY bologna sandwich instead of a decaying chicken.
I shook my head in wonder along with the other women when the smell was finally gone. I used my acting training to appear as mind-boggled as I could be.
And now, I wonder what was wrong with that particular bologna sandwich since this week-old version didn’t even have a scent.