Classic Lies Men Tell: The Museum of Magnificent Explanations

Some men can make a sentence sound so convincing that you almost feel embarrassed for remembering what actually happened.

The explanation arrives beautifully dressed, wearing sincerity, concern, perhaps a little sadness around the eyes, and before you know it, the man who vanished for six days has somehow become the exhausted hero of an unusually demanding week.

Welcome to the Museum of Magnificent Explanations

Please stay with the group.

Our first exhibit is “I Was Just About to Call You,” featuring a telephone and a man who has apparently been reaching for it since last Thursday. You call him, and what extraordinary timing — he was just thinking about you. You text him, and remarkably, he was about to text you too.

This psychic connection is especially impressive because it only activates when you contact him first.

Beside him stands his close relative, “I’ve Been So Busy.”

This man is operating under pressures normally associated with heads of state. He has had no time whatsoever, except for drinks with friends, football, three dinners out, and a photograph of himself holding a cocktail near a swimming pool.

A message to you, however, would apparently have required the cancellation of several international summits.

Then we enter the Hall of Female Friendship.

“She’s Just a Friend.”

And perhaps she is.

Men do have female friends. Civilization has survived this development.

Our particular friend, however, texts him at midnight, has never been mentioned before, and somehow requires secrecy normally reserved for buried treasure. The moment you ask who she is, he looks at you with such hurt innocence that you begin to wonder whether you have insulted Florence Nightingale.

Nothing unusual is happening.

It merely cannot be discussed.

A few steps farther is “We’re Basically Separated,” one of the museum’s finest linguistic achievements.

Basically is carrying an enormous amount of furniture.

His marriage is finished emotionally, spiritually, philosophically and, unfortunately, not actually. They may still share a house, attend family events together, and go on holiday in photographs that appear surprisingly cheerful for two people whose relationship has supposedly become archaeological history.

His wife may also be unaware that she is separated.

This is considered a minor technical detail.

Next comes “I’m Not Ready for a Relationship.”

Sometimes this is perfectly true.

The museum version is more ambitious.

He is not ready for a relationship, but he is ready to see you three times a week, sleep with you, receive affection, enjoy your loyalty, become oddly interested in whether you are seeing anyone else, and behave wounded if you become less available.

He does not want the restaurant. He would simply like a permanent table, complimentary service, and perhaps his name engraved near the entrance.

Then, several months later, he suddenly becomes ready for a relationship with someone else.

A medical miracle.

Nearby you will find “It’s Not What It Looks Like.”

This exhibit is interactive.

You are invited to look directly at something suspicious while being told that your eyes have become unreliable.

The messages are not what they look like. The photographs are not what they look like. The woman leaving his apartment is not what she looks like.

Soon the only thing that apparently is what it looks like is his face while explaining why everything else is misleading.

He is not merely asking you to believe him.

He is asking you to disregard the entire room.

On your left: “I Didn’t Want to Hurt You.”

This usually appears after the hurting has already been completed and is now sitting comfortably in the middle of the floor.

He did not tell you because he cared about your feelings.

Which is touching.

Apparently the safest place for your feelings was inside a situation you did not know existed.

Then comes the romantic classic: “I’ve Never Felt This Way Before.”

Perhaps he hasn’t.

But the sentence becomes especially charming when delivered by a man who has said it to four women in three years, each apparently awakening an entirely new emotional continent.

He falls in love like a luxury hotel opening locations.

Every launch is historic.

Around the corner: “My Ex Was Crazy.”

A popular exhibit.

Every former girlfriend was irrational, jealous, unstable, difficult, dramatic, impossible, and mysteriously drawn to this one perfectly reasonable man.

It is an astonishing run of bad luck.

He has spent years innocently walking through life while women around him lose their minds for reasons nobody can explain.

One begins to wonder whether the museum should perhaps place a small mirror nearby.

And finally, our grand attraction: “It Will Never Happen Again.”

The lighting is beautiful here.

There are apologies, revelations, promises, perhaps even a voice trembling slightly at exactly the correct moment.

He understands everything now.

People genuinely do change, of course, but the museum specializes in the fascinating period when a promise has already been promoted to evidence while the changed behavior is still expected to arrive shortly.

Sometimes it does.

Sometimes the exhibit reopens next month.

The funny thing about classic lies is that the sentences themselves are often perfectly ordinary. People really are busy. Women really can be friends. Marriages really can be ending. People really can become confused, frightened, overwhelmed or unsure.

The comedy begins when the explanation and the surrounding reality stop recognizing each other.

The words remain elegant.

The facts are standing ten feet away waving.

And because attraction is a marvelous little interior decorator, it can arrange almost any explanation nicely if you already want it to fit. A strange sentence gets cushions. A contradiction gets fresh flowers. Something obviously crooked is moved slightly to the left until, from one particular angle, it looks almost straight.

Which is why the Museum of Magnificent Explanations remains so popular.

Admission is free.

You usually pay on the way out.