Yeah, me neither. I would have never let something like that happen to me last year with my friends promptly posting it on social media. Because that would be embarrassing. Especially if they took another picture of you watching yourself on YouTube and you’re not comprehending the fact that you still have toilet paper hanging off of you as you watch the video of yourself with toilet paper hanging off of you.

However, if it had happened to me, and I’m not saying it did, but if it did, why didn’t anyone tell me before the citizen paparazzi went crazy? If it were my friend walking around with a tissue tail I would have said something right away, and I’m sure you would have, too. Which is why I like you so much, but these other weirdos, have they no compassion? Does their desire for a viral yet ephemeral YouTube video trump saving their friend from a lifetime of digital humiliation?

I strongly believe that this world would be a better place if more people spoke up

Powdered doughnuts? Never again!

And then there was the incident that also may or may not have happened to me when I returned to work after a two-week vacation. I walked into the conference room for our daily staff meeting with my huge cup of coffee and noticed no one was talking. The room was thick with hanging heads in business suits and I blurted out through a mouthful of powdered doughnut, perhaps a little louder [and powderier] than necessary, “Hey, who died?”

How much would it have cost someone to send me a text or email about a colleague’s freak circus accident prior to my return? Again, I can neither confirm nor deny that it actually happened to me personally, because again, that would be humiliating, but really, people! Is one lousy heads-up message too much to ask? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to work with a cubicle mate who isn’t speaking to you any more? Do you know I can barely eat my morning ritualistic powdered doughnut without choking on it?

And all because people don’t speak up when they should.

My friendly neighbour

Helga is my next-door neighbour. She wears long robes and keeps a big kettle of boiling stuff on the stove all the time, stirring it occasionally. I can see right into her living room from my kitchen window. She’s a nice lady, has never spoken ill of anyone and has always been kind to me. She also has a pet raven named Edgar Allen Poe.

Periodically, a nosy neighbour will try to report Helga to the authorities as a witch. She never confirms or denies it because she doesn’t think it’s anyone’s business what she does in the privacy of her own home.

Periodically, a nosy neighbour will try to report Helga to the authorities as a witch

I happen to know she’s not a witch, but she asked me not to comment to anyone one way or the other because they don’t deserve to have their accusations dignified with denials. “It’s the principle of the thing,” she says. “It’s none of their business what I do.”

I once tried to persuade her otherwise, but then a weird tingling sensation shot through my brain. When I got off her kitchen floor, and a concerned Helga asked me if I was okay, I felt nothing but a soft compassion for her and couldn’t believe I was trying to talk her into betraying her own principles.

The neighbour kids throw eggs at her house. They ring her doorbell and run away. They taunt her when she is outside tending to the fragrant herbs on her dilapidated front porch. They make fun of her gardening attire and go around town talking about the tall, black and pointy thing on her head. But those kids are wrong. Helga’s gardening hat is more of a dark navy blue.

She says they leave nasty gifts on her doorstep. Last week I saw her unwrap a package while we were in her kitchen and when she saw me looking, she quickly stuffed it away.

“Was that an eye of newt?” I asked.

“Can you believe what they leave on my porch?” She shook her head and laughed, but I could tell those kids had hurt her feelings because she sneaked a look in my direction, to see if I could see her eyes turning red, as if about to cry.

“Where does one get an eye of newt?” I asked.

She just shrugged her shoulders and slipped the box into a cupboard. “You can get anything on the internet these days,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”

Helga won’t speak up to deny all the accusations or prove them wrong, and I’m sure she’s suffering because of it. I see her from my kitchen window pacing back and forth in her living room at 3am, reading a huge ancient book that looks too heavy for her to carry. Probably a bible, and how many witches do you know that read a bible, huh? Exactly.

I can see her mumbling as she paces, no doubt because of persecution anxiety, the poor thing. If Helga would just talk to the neighbours, I’m sure everyone would realise that it’s all a misunderstanding.

Speaking up is good

What I’m trying to say is, I strongly believe that this world would be a better place if more people spoke up.

And now if you’ll excuse me, I promised Helga I’d teach her how to brush her unruly hair. Then she wants me to help her when Mr. Jasmine shows up this evening to appraise her exotic broom collection. I bet it’s worth a lot. Some of those sticks are over 500 years old.

The post Should I speak up or stay silent? appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

How can you go on working with these people who drive you batty on a daily basis? Luckily for you, I have all the answers to help you regain your sanity and leave the anxiety for the significantly smaller irritants in life. Like commuter traffic.

The Loud Talker

This is the guy who can’t keep his voice down whether he yaks on the phone with his proctologist or blows your hair back from point-blank range as he blusters on about his weekend at the lake on his friend’s gold-plated yacht. The solution to this one is easy. Bring a gong to office. Every time that hot airbag opens his mouth, bang that gong until he goes away.

Okay seriously, headphones should do the trick. For you, not him. [If you gave that guy headphones, his decibel level would hit the red zone.]

The Cougher

This also goes for the hummer, the whistler, the throat clearer, the sniffler, the mumbler, the heavy sigher, the tongue clicker and the coffee slurper. The first time the offender offends, scream, “OMG! You scared me!” The second time it happens, yell out and slap a hammer down hard on your desk. Say, “Holy Moly, that startled me!” Keep this up until the offender stops or asks to be moved elsewhere. Or, you could try headphones again, it’s purely up to you.

The Fish Monger

Nothing stinks up the kitchen and the office like a reheated seafood buffet. Should any clueless coworker [like the aforementioned Bipasha] have the audacity to bring in such a noxious lunch, say something like, “Holy Mackerel! Who farted? Did someone fart?” Trust me, you’ll be the hero of the office for simply expressing what everyone else is thinking but doesn’t have the nerve to say.

The Non-replacer

This is the lazy woman, probably the freckled sandal-wearer in Human Resources, who leaves one square of toilet paper on the roll instead of replacing it. She is the same person who leaves two sips of coffee in the pot and doesn’t make more. She undoubtedly does this at home. Therefore, the answer to this problem is to call her husband and inquire as to what he does to put a stop to such selfish behaviour.

The Chronic Farter or Burper

So, Ratish is a nice guy and all, but he’s really let himself go in his later years and he really lets “it” go in the office. All day long. It’s a daily thunderstorm that stinks so bad it keeps the bugs away, which might be a good thing, but if you can’t see your own computer screen through the tears and the fog, how are you expected to get any work done? Well, let me just save you a lot of time right now.

Recent studies show that men fart way more than women in the office. It would behoove you to surround yourself with women when you are first assigned your desk. If you didn’t think of this and you are stuck sitting next to Ratish and his storm-clouded cubicle, try screaming, “Holy Gaspipe! Did someone cook fish? Is someone cooking fish? Bipasha, is that you?”

The truth is, your proximity to Ratish is your own fault, and unless you’re willing to take him to the doctor for a prescription or get the guy to lay off wada pav and chole bhature for a while, get a desk fan.

The Clipper

This is the guy [why am I picking on guys so much? Because they are gross when it comes to hygiene]… anyway, this is the guy who pulls off his shoes and socks, and clips his toenails right there at his desk. [See? I told you they were gross.] You’re having a pleasant day at work so far, only to be interrupted by the high-pitched clipping of human talons, which are most likely flying across the aisle onto your desk and landing like rice grains on your resignation letter to the boss.

Don’t let this nasty man drive you out of a job. Fight back. Bring in one of those air guns they have at sporting events where they shoot T-shirts into the crowd. Start with shooting a handful of worms in his direction and go from there. Build up in size and grossness until you find something that gets his attention. It might take all day, but it will be worth it.

The Flosser

What is it with people ejecting or flicking small bits from their body onto your desk or in your hair? I’m even willing to assign this example to a woman because, gender equality. Now, if Tanya flosses at her desk, I have two words for you: mosquito netting.

However, if Tanya flosses over your shoulder—which has happened to someone I know, and the offender was a guy—actually, now that I think of it, the same two words apply.

Now for the real solution to the above problems

In all due seriousness, let’s consider the fact that many governments don’t have the resources to feed and shelter these mentally ill people; they are left in the cruel harsh world to fend for themselves and they are trying, God bless ‘em, at least they have jobs.

For your own sanity and wellbeing, you must find a way to relieve your stress over the toenail clipper and the coffee sipper and the let-it-ripper. Especially if it’s the same person. Campaign with your boss to move desks. Campaign to work from home. Get your boss to sympathise by campaigning to switch desks with him or her personally. This will put your boss in your shoes for a second, maybe enough so that he will try to help you, after a quick gag reflex because he has his own issues with tooth crevice jam.

So take a deep breath and remember that your annoying coworkers are not as evolved or self-aware as you are. Have some compassion for our less fortunate brethren [and sistren] who can’t help themselves.

Treat your work relationships like a marriage, where you are stuck with these nose-picking, space-invading people for the unforeseeable future. Find ways to cope, whether it’s wearing headphones or purging on Facebook.

You can’t control the behaviour of your coworkers, but you can choose how you respond to it. Writing it down can heal your pain or at least get it off your chest and make you feel better. Why does all this stuff get on your last nerve, anyway? It’s not like you’re so flawless either, you know. Maybe you’re the one with the problem, complaining all the time, did you ever think of that?

This was first published in the April 2015 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

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And then there are the people who lie to your face. Right there, in person at the grocery store. You haven’t seen each other in awhile and she’s [let’s call her Dabny] missed every one of your book club meetings for the last two months. She tells you she’s been so busy but she thinks about you every day and oh, have you lost weight? After she rushes off for a ‘work event’ you find out that she left your book club for a much cooler one than yours. So, why is she lying? I’ll tell you why.

An easy way out

Dabny believes you can’t handle the truth. Also, she’s a spineless weasel. Frankly, I don’t understand why you’re friends with her.

Why couldn’t Dabny tell you the truth, instead of letting you waste all kinds of energy and time worrying about your friendship and following her around town and bugging her apartment? And sending her emails and texting her in case she didn’t get those emails, and calling her in case she didn’t get those texts, and messaging her on Facebook in case she didn’t get those voice mails?

Recent surveys show that 95 per cent of people lie at least once a day… and the other five per cent lied on the questionnaires. If one lie was a dollar, we’d all be millionaires. Of course, inflation would skyrocket and you wouldn’t be able to afford housing, food and your cell phone bill but you’d have loads of money.

Lying is all about controlling the behaviour of others. But mostly, people lie because they’re afraid. Like your spineless weasel friend, Dabny, who screens her calls.

Most liars are insecure and starved for attention. The truth is boring, but if you have a ‘filthy-rich’ love interest, or a celebrity who is a ‘good friend’ or worse, a ‘very good friend’, then everyone at the party wants to gather around you and hear about it. Your lies have instantly made you everyone’s ‘best friend’.

Lies that irk me

Like the fictional Dr Gregory House says, “Everybody lies”. I mean cheating Jack isn’t about to tell the doctor how he really hit his head [because he and the babysitter were goofing around], especially with his wife sitting right there in the doctor’s office with him.

Or if you’re standing for elections, tell the people what they want to hear because they will vote for you based on your unrealistic promises. They will scream at you later for not fulfilling your promise. But hey, you got elected and that’s what matters, right?

And don’t get me started on the scam artists who sell pills that will either shrink your whole body or enlarge a specific part of it.

The downside to lying

Here’s the thing—I’m a literal person who expects honesty. If I take Joe blow-things-out-of-proportion literally, I ride his emotional roller coaster with him, reacting to his near-death experiences of wrestling alligators and almost plane crashes as if what he’s telling me happened exactly the way he says it did. After he’s delivered his steaming pile of hyperboles, I’m emotionally exhausted. Later, I will feel like a duped fool for believing any of it. Eventually, I don’t trust him anymore and simply nod along instead of boarding that tiresome train.

If you have a secret, you can tell me or not, I don’t care. I’m not that kind of nosy and I’m not insulted if you keep it from me. I’d rather you say nothing about your closet skeletons than claim you’ve never “had any work done” on your face. Besides, I can tell that you’ve had work done on your face. Nobody’s cheekbones look like that naturally.

As a famous, cherry tree-chopping young lad once said, “I cannot tell a lie”. Though I am fully capable of distorting the truth, it’s too energy consuming for me. I speak from experience when I say that when one lies, one has to store that lie for later reference and I simply can’t be bothered.

I lied to my mother once when I was a teenager. I came home late one day and gave her some lame excuse about breaking my watch and brought in two watch-less witnesses to back me up. But her words indicated that she knew I was lying. In one moment, I’d been caught and punished without being humiliated in front of my friends. I felt horrible. My mother was indeed a clever woman.

When lying makes sense

On the other hand, there are times when lying is a fabulous idea. For example, it’s perfectly acceptable to lie to rude or judgmental people. So what if you have a penchant for squirrel-themed salt and pepper shakers or a late-night doughnut problem? That’s none of their dang business. They don’t deserve the truth for being meddlesome. These so-called friends of yours are emotional terrorists and you can’t let the terrorists win.

Don’t enable their behaviour by answering invasive questions. If you’re a materialistic Judgy McJudgerstein and you ask me where I got this puffy, lime green prom dress and how much it was, I’m not about to tell you I bought it at an 80 per cent discount from a roadside vendor. I’ll say I paid full price for it and had it custom tailored. However, if you’re my trusted friend, not only will I tell you where I bought it from, I will also show you the other cool stuff I bought from him—like an awesome pink chessboard-topped table.

You know, it’s frustrating for those of us who believe in a meritocracy, which doesn’t exist. We watch liars pass us by on their way to the bank because of all this silly integrity with which we are burdened. If only we could tell ourselves, “Well, at least I can sleep at night because I’m not an emotional terrorist,” but then, we’d be the liars.

Nevertheless, we have to keep fighting the good fight because someday, we will win. Someday, technology will advance to the point of reading our brains and everyone will have an app called Polly Graff installed on their smartphones, which flashes holographic emotional terrorist icons above people’s heads when they lie.

Look, I can understand if you don’t want to tell me that you’ve murdered someone or just paid an outrageous sum of money for an awkwardly located tattoo, or you crashed on the couch and binged-watched Spongebob Squarepants all weekend instead of going out with me. Don’t be Dabny, the spineless weasel. You can tell me what you really did, even if it was without me. Or tell me nothing. I won’t take it personally or judge you. If you tell me the truth, I will love you and respect you no matter what everyone else says about you.

And that’s no lie.

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