I lied to an old lady
A few days ago, I walked into a leather shop in downtown Toronto.
There was a sweet old Italian lady there who was helping me pick out a jacket for my body type. The jackets were beautifully made, and I was considering getting one. But after she told me the price, I realised that it was way out of my budget.
Instead of telling her that straight up, I continued to try on jackets and even agreed to check out their bespoke service in the back of the store (which would cost even more).
Right before leaving, I told her, "I've got an appointment around the corner, but I'll be back soon when I have more time."
I said that fully knowing that I would, in fact, not be coming back. Ever.
I don't know why I did this. But I feel deeply horrible for lying.
I think lying is a kind of poison. It corrupts the soul, and makes you like yourself less.
What a sad way to live.