I sat down with him to watch television, noticing that he had preprogrammed a show that was going to start in a few minutes.
“You want to watch… The Truth About Shoplifting?”
“Yes.”
“Huh. Well, okay.”
“It’s a documentary,” he said, as though that explained it completely. And it did.
We’ve been into documentaries lately. They’re interesting, they generate conversation and questions and they generally open your mind. Expanding our horizons! Through the magic of mindless staring at a screen. I love the duality there.
Anyway, given the topic, I couldn’t help think about my one instance of law breaking. Suddenly seized with dueling desires: one to share and tell the truth, the other to pretend it never happened and hide my eighteen-year-old shameful secret from him forever.
“In fact, over 80% of us have shoplifted.“
I took a deep breath.
“Have you ever shoplifted?”
“Yep.” He didn’t even hesitate.
“You DID?”
I was shocked. Amazed. Relieved. Appalled.
Here was Doug, the man who is honest to a fault, who exudes a sense of rightness. A law-breaker. Unashamed, unhesitatingly admitting to a felony.
“Whaaaaaa? When? What?” I couldn’t get over my surprise.
“Years ago. I was waiting in line for a really, really long time, and I had a golf club in the golf case I was purchasing. I told the cashier about it, but she didn’t scan it, so I left with the golf club. Figured it was compensation for them having wasted so much of my time.”
“Unbelievable.”
I shook my head at him. He ate a chip, unconcerned.
“Have you ever shoplifted?”
“Um… ” An unnaturally long pause. “Yes.”
Naturally, he asked me for the details. I hesitated, but was determined to spill the beans now. I had passed the point of no return. It was the first time I had ever admitted to this. Ever. To anyone. Like I said, it was my secret shame.
“I was thirteen, or maybe fourteen. I was in my favourite bookstore, and… I stole… something.”
“A book?”
“No.” My voice got smaller with my increasing sense of shame. “A bookmark. Or three.”
“A bookmark?”
“Or three.”
He laughed. Oh, but he laughed. I don’t know if he found the value of the items so laughable, or whether it was that the one chance I had at being a petty thief was spent on something so pitiful, or if it was a matter of looking at my face, so steeped in shame, that set him off. But he laughed.
Surprisingly, it felt really nice, to be able to laugh with him.
And so, now you know, Internet. My secret shame.




















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