Black suits and white lies

I told a white lie.

I was on the cruise, and found myself tired of being a widower, so I told a white lie.

I was tired of trying to figure out how to work the words, "My wife passed away," into every conversation. Especially when I was trying to meet new people. I felt like I was wearing a "Pity Me" T-shirt.

The final straw was when I met a perfectly nice woman. Under normal circumstances, I would have ... well, I can't say I'd make a pass at her, because I'm socially handicapped, but I'd have at least asked if she wanted to get a drink. Then I found myself uttering those magic words, and boom, the timber of the conversation changed. It was no longer an introduction, it was a sympathy session.

I've got too much pride to try to use Deb's death as leverage. I would never try to get someone to feel sorry for me so I could get them to go out with me or to do anything for me. But it's also an unavoidable fact. Why was I by myself? Why was the reservation for two but I was alone? Plus, I'm perfectly willing to tell people about Deb; she was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I'm proud to say I was married to her.

But sometimes, I want to take the black suit off and just be me. Or whoever it is I'm becoming since I'm not Deb's husband any more.

So when it came time to dispense of the extra concert ticket I had, when I found someone who needed one, I simply said, "It's my wife's. She can't make it."

Technically, it's true. Plus whoever got the ticket didn't have to know they were using a dead woman's ticket, because that thought might have made them uncomfortable. Plus I got in a conversation that didn't include the words, "I'm sorry."

Besides, Deb probably appreciated the mental acrobatics of it. She and I used to agree that fast food hamburgers are the perfect meal because all the food groups are represented: meat, dairy, grains and vegetables.

So I told a white lie. Big deal.