Honesty is the Best Policy, Right?

Honesty is the best policy, right?

You meet someone. You hit it off. First, just a night of a couple drinks. Next, a real date. A good one too. Better than you would have imagined, given your track record. A second, real date is scheduled before the first date concludes. A few nights later, the second date. Schedules don’t align for a week or so, and while trying to schedule that seemingly elusive third date, a response: I’d like to keep hanging out with you, but only as friends, is that okay?

Honesty is the best policy, right?

We’re all adults. We’re all friends. When things don’t go according to plan, we offer up half-hearted but not required explanations. After all, we’re all adults. There’s no hard feelings, and we all move on. More so, we understand each other. There aren’t really any secrets, even if we think there are. After all, we’re all friends, and there’s no hard feelings.

Honesty is the best policy, right?

I had a hard time getting my car back last week. Supposed to be a one day job. They ordered the wrong part. It took an extra day from the manufacturer. The one technician that can do the job had an emergency and had to leave early. I asked to have it done by three on Friday. They hadn’t started on it by 11am. Finished at 5pm. I was already gone. A 3-hour job. My car sat from Monday, 8:15am, until Friday, 9pm.

Honesty is the best policy, right?

I don’t have a lot of drama in my life. I don’t have many overtly serious conversations that carry weight farther than the people in the room. I’ve lived my life, for the most part, and as best as I know how, as honestly as I can. Is there information that I’ve withheld? Sure. Have I told a lie in the last week? You betcha. Does it make my hands sweat to know I have to face the truth and tell people what I feel, to tell someone I care about, what I’m thinking? I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t. But for the majority of my life, that’s just what I believed. If you can’t face the truth, then you deserve what you get. It might make you reconsider some decisions if you know that you’ll never be able to cover it up. I guess I believe that if you tell the truth, that’s forgivable. If you lie to cover it up, the same thing, whatever it is, and get caught, that’s unforgivable. Is that fair? Maybe not. But it sounds right in my head. Or at least it did.

Recently I’ve been on the receiving end of what I believe to be interactions that I would classify as less than honest. And while I’ve nearly unintentionally spent an unreasonable amount of time kneading and plodding over those interactions, eliciting the opinions of others, attempting to draw out the truth in future interactions, I’m not entirely sure, regardless of my previous convictions, that knowing the truth, whether it aligns with my predictions or not, would be satisfying. What happens if I’m right? I get no reward. I just get the truth, which was most likely withheld for a reason. What if I’m wrong? Then I just feel like an asshole. But I hate the fact that I just justified lying.

Honesty is the best policy, right? I don’t know. Maybe.

Healthy Optimism

So, from the day I owned it, my car has given me issues. I bought it used, but under warranty, so my twenty two year old mind was convinced that regardless if it took a literal shit in the middle of the road, at least it was free to fix. Well, a half dozen trips to Arlington Nissan later, I thought I was in the clear. But another half dozen trips to Ashland Tire, a few trips to Tiger’s Body Shop, a few trips to Gerber Collision and Glass, and now a trip to Pep Boys has left me nearly regretting the purchase. Granted, if I had to go back and do it again, I don’t. But after just crossing my 4 year anniversary with her, and putting on 50,000 miles, I couldn’t imagine myself driving another car, at least not any time soon. So for me, the effort, the cost, the patience, the frustration, it’s worth it. Sink a couple hundred in now to save me from settling on a car I don’t love. Whatever, it’s a testing theory, but it’s worked out for me so far. You never know what tomorrow brings.

That brings me to today. I dropped my car off Monday morning at a neighborhood Pep Boys in order to get the master and slave (right?!) cylinder replaced on my clutch, which, if you’ve ever been in my car with me for more than 30 minutes, becomes a constant place of my frustration, until, you know, 15 minutes later, when it magically fixes itself and drives itself like it just rolled out of the plant. Then I get in my car and the clutch is on the floor.

We’ve had our ups and downs.

So this master and slave cylinder replacement is a two hour job for a qualified mechanic. They had already ordered the parts, all I had to do was drop it off at 8am, walk two miles back home, spend the day working from home, wait until the hopefully early afternoon call, walk two miles back to Pep Boys, and drive home, happily ever after, assuming, of course, I remember to stop next door to exchange a recently purchased pair of shorts that I swear were either improperly marked as a 32” or Merona has some cross-eyed factory workers. That’s all I had to do. Well, I did that. Until I received a phone call telling me that the part they ordered doesn’t match the part they took off my car.

‘Well, we’ll check in the morning, but we might have to go back to the manufacturer.’ Awesome. I guess I’ll wait another day.

Tuesday afternoon: We couldn’t find an aftermarket master cylinder that matches yours, so we went to the manufacturer, but there isn’t one close, so we have to order it. Hope to have it tomorrow (Wednesday), but might not be ready until Thursday.

Wednesday, no communication. Nothing until I got a ride from my roommate so I could pick up my softball cleats and glove from the trunk on my way to a game. Didn’t even have time to yell at them for keeping me in the dark.

It’s Thursday now. Mind you, this week I’ve been taking public transit into work each day since Monday. For those of you out there that have lengthy public commutes, you can sympathize. For those who don’t… My morning consisted of leaving at 6:20am, walking .5 miles, taking a purple line train, transferring to a yellow line “Skokie Swift” train, jumping on the 626 Pace bus all the way up to Northbrook, getting off at the Lake Cook Metra stop, and walking just a hair under a mile to my building, arriving to my desk between 7:45am and 7:50am. Reverse that and add a few minutes for my afternoon commute home. So it’s Thursday, the last day they are allowed to have my call, and 3:30pm rolls around.

‘We got the part in, but the technician working on your car had an emergency and left early.’ Apparently no one else in the shop can complete the task at hand and finish the job, so I now wait until some time on Friday to pick up my car, praying what they did actually fixes the damn problem.

I have every right to be upset. The inconvenience of not having a car to someone who usually has a car and drives it on average six days a week is relatively substantial. I turned back to my work, trying my best to focus and stop the overheating that swarmed me. Before I hung up, my Pep Boys contact promised he’d take care of me for this, hopefully rewarding my patience with some sort of percentage discount, which, for the price of this job, would be nice, but possibly weaseling his way into a 25% off your next purchase or some shit like that. We’ll see what he can do. In the meantime, what do I do?

Well, in the three days of public commuting, I’ve saved $3 a day over what it would cost in gas. There’s $10. And if I can get maybe 10% off my bill, there’s another $60. And while on the two trains and a bus, I managed to knock a decent chunk out of the weighty block of pages I call the book I’m currently reading, which, considering how long it has taken me to get this far, is a big deal if I ever want to start a new book. And I’m lucky enough to have a boss nice enough to give me the chance to work from home Friday, ensuring my plans don’t get postponed, since I have to be in the loop by 4:30.

I guess the point of this shitastic story is, shockingly, everything can be shitty in shitty light. But if you can find the time to look at what positives have emerged because of this shiterific series of events, it goes a long way to live a less stressed life. I’m not saying I’m pleased with how it all went down, nor am I pleased that I bought a car that most assuredly should have had a carfax report run, but at the end of the day, I’m probably a better, strong person. Not just because I endured the shitty end of something to make me appreciate and learn for the future, but because every shitazing moment along the way has taught me patience, balance, and a generally optimistic outlook, which, as much as physical health, goes a long way to living a healthy life. 

 Picture comment: just a random picture of 'optimism'