There are many phrases in the English language that make my eyelid twitch. 

“Calm down.” 

“Can I pick your brain?” 

“Let’s touch base.” 

But none—none—gets me more nuts like the dreaded, sanctimonious, guilt-dipped phrase: “It’s the right thing to do.”

Every time I hear it, I feel like someone has just handed me a moral invoice for something I do not recall ordering.

Take the classic example: a relative’s birthday party. Not a beloved relative. Not one you admire, or tolerate, or even feel neutrally about. No. It’s that relative, the one whose greatest contributions to family life are loud opinions, questionable hygiene and the uncanny ability to ruin every holiday since I can remember. The last thing I want to do is celebrate this man’s birthday. I wouldn’t celebrate the anniversary of his leaving a room.

But what do I get told?

“Come on… he’s family. It’s the right thing to do.”

Really? The right thing? As in, morally required by the universe? Like donating a kidney or rescuing a puppy that fell through the ice, apparently, attending his birthday party, complete with everyone singing off-key “Happy Birthday,” and presenting him with a cake he doesn’t need. 

This is how guilt works. It takes a perfectly reasonable preference (“I don’t want to go”) and turns it into a crime against humanity. Suddenly, I’m not just skipping a party. No. I’m betraying my ancestors.

And then there’s the funeral scenario. The ultimate guilt trap.

There’s a funeral for someone I never liked. Not even secretly. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to dress in black, pretend to be solemn, or stand around whispering, “He looks so peaceful,” when we all know he looks like a wax figure. 

But before I can even finish the sentence “I’d rather not,” someone jumps in:

“Oh, stop it. It’s the right thing to do.”

Why? Why is it the right thing to do? Who decided this? Was there a committee? A council of elders? A guilt tribunal that voted unanimously that I must now spend my Sunday afternoon paying respects to someone I barely respected when he was alive?

Honestly, the person who invented that phrase should be shot. And yes, I know what you’re thinking.  Would I go to his funeral?

Absolutely. Just to see it all finally end with him.

Now, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not opposed to decency. I’m all for charity, kindness, compassion and the real moral stuff. But dragging myself to events solely because someone else wants to force good behavior onto my schedule? That’s emotional jury duty.

Let’s be honest: “It’s the right thing to do” is almost never used for genuinely right things. Nobody ever says:

“You should take a nap. It’s the right thing to do.”
or
“You should buy yourself something nice. It’s the right thing to do.”

No. It’s only used for things that are inconvenient, uncomfortable or involve bland sheet cake, awkward small talk or folding chairs.

And guilt behind all this is one of humanity’s oldest traditions. Cavemen probably used it:

And while we’re on the topic of things people guilt us into doing because “it’s the right thing to do,” let me bring up a personal trauma: tuxedos. Yes, tuxedos, the formal-wear straitjacket of society.

There is no one, and I mean no one, who hates wearing a tuxedo more than I do. When I get an invitation that specifies “Black Tie,” I don’t want to go. I don’t want to think about going. Frankly, I don’t even want to RSVP.  I want to move, change my name and enter the witness protection program.

But of course, someone always pipes up with:
“Well… it’s the right thing to do.”
Sure it is. For whom? The penguin lobby?  Where is this affair anyway?  On a glacier?  Pictures in next month’s National Geographic Magazine.

Here’s the thing: I take instructions literally. If the invitation says “Black Tie,” I will wear a black tie with a suit. Because,  and stay with me on this, the invitation said black tie. It said absolutely nothing about a tuxedo. Nowhere did it say “Dress like James Bond about to defuse a bomb in a ballroom.” And don’t you just love the invitation that says: “black tie suggested.”  Yeah, sure.  It means that you had better show up in a tuxedo.  

But apparently, everyone around me insists that a tuxedo is implied. Implied! Since when do we follow implied fashion? If someone wanted me to wear something so specific, they should write it directly on the invitation, preferably in neon letters: “Wear a tux or you’ll bring shame upon your entire family.”

But we had three black-tie events within a few months. Three! I’m still recovering. And because renting a tuxedo three times was apparently too expensive, I was informed by my wife that it would be cheaper to buy one. Of course it would be. Why wouldn’t I invest in a garment designed solely to make me look like a penguin? 

So, I found a place that sold tuxedos for $100. A whole tuxedo for a hundred bucks. At that price, I’m pretty sure the fabric was made from recycled coffee filters. I bought it anyway. I wore it three times, under duress. 

And afterward? I didn’t hang it carefully in a garment bag. No, no. I hung it in the closet completely uncovered, fully exposed to the elements in hopes that it would slowly disintegrate on its own. 

At my age, I’m not going to any more black-tie events. It’s simply not the right thing to do. Not for my comfort, not for my sanity, and certainly not for the tuxedo, which deserves to decay peacefully.  And for $100, fast.

Through the centuries, the phrase evolved but the intent stayed the same: making someone do something they don’t want to do by implying that they are morally defective if they refuse.

But today’s form is worse, because it comes with family. And nothing applies guilt with the same precision, force and relentlessness as well-meaning relatives. They treat guilt like a sport. Some families even have regionals. They give guilt trophies. 

The truth is: nobody wants to admit the real reason they want you to go to the party or funeral. It has nothing to do with “rightness.” What they really mean is:

“Please go so I don’t have to explain why you’re not there.” But no one says that, because it doesn’t have the moral sting of “It’s the right thing to do,” which is basically the nuclear weapon of guilt.

So, what should we do? Maybe we need a new phrase. Something honest, harmless and far less pushy.

Instead of “It’s the right thing to do,” we could try:

“It would be nice if you came, but I respect your sanity.” 

Or

“Please show up so I don’t get yelled at.”
Or my favorite: 

“Look, I know you don’t want to go. Neither do I. Let’s suffer together.”

Now that is family.

Until then, I’ll continue dodging moral obligations disguised as social events. I’ll continue questioning whether attending a party for someone I dislike is a moral requirement. And I’ll continue rolling my eyes every time someone tries to hand me a guilt sandwich.

Because as far as I’m concerned, the only “right thing to do” is whatever actually feels right. 

But, if my wife insists, and when she insists it is not negotiable, and if the tuxedo hasn’t disintegrated too much, I will consider it.