Lies

A week or two ago I injured my left wrist, resulting in a mild sprain that I thought would vanish as quickly as my enthusiasm for dining hall food. It proved remarkably persistent, however, and even worsened after I wisely performed such wrist-heavy activities as boxing and econometrics homework. So I bit the bullet, swallowed my vanity and started wearing an exceedingly ugly brace that looks not unlike an orthopedic shoe.

However, concerned friends (read: curious strangers) have been asking me all week how I hurt my wrist. As the truth is pretty lame, I usually follow it with, “I know, I need a better story, right?” to save some face and maybe get a chuckle out of them. What I didn’t expect was that almost every person would nod seriously, screw up their faces in deep thought and suggest an incredibly fantastical story, the likes of which have not been seen on this Earth since the last "Harry Potter" book came out. But what really got me was that all of these people were completely serious. My best friends actually thought I should tell people I did a flip off my motorcycle and landed badly, or that I got hit by a car while saving an untended baby carriage, or that I saw one of the athletes getting mugged and bravely came to his rescue.

See, this came as a real shock to me, akin to the time I found out that, indeed, people do still exist who have never seen "Breaking Bad" (2008-2013). I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty creative person, good at making crap up and telling tall tales (see: Daily archives of this column). So me stretching the truth a bit now and then only seemed natural, but the carpet was totally pulled out from under me when I realized all of my friends were doing the same. Call me naive, but this was a total eye-opener for me, and I walked away from these conversations growing highly suspicious of my friends and if I could trust anything they’d ever told me.

The general conjecture seemed to be that this sort of thing was perfectly natural -- and maybe even expected -- to lie about. And maybe I’m the last Honest Abe left on this planet (ha), but to me this seems like a down-the-rabbit-hole sort of situation. If a wrist injury is fair game, what’s wrong with a little fibbing about needing an extension on your paper (there are a lot of untended baby carriages rolling around out there) or forgetting to take the trash out (also plenty of athletes getting mugged)? If we continue along this train of thinking, we’ll end up in a world of complete anarchy where HBO gives out false information about when "Game of Thrones" will return, and where you get the wrong take-out bag at McDonald’s because the employee didn’t believe you were ordering what you actually wanted. And I don’t know about you, but that is definitely not the sort of world I want to live in.

These last few days I’ve found myself sort of side-eyeing my friends whenever they take too long to answer, and also questioning seemingly innocuous statements. (“I’m headed to Tisch later” “Are you? Are you really?”). It appears that constant vigilance is the only way to prevent myself from being completely taken in by these twisted, Machiavellian strangers I once called my friends. But as I’m sure you know, it’s always best to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

And, in case the suspense is killing you at this point, I hurt my wrist doing yoga. Yes, yoga. Go ahead, laugh as much as you want, and I’ll see you next Monday.