An Ethics Parable for Halloween

There’s a plastic pumpkin filled with candy on the little table near the front door of our house. It is waiting for (or left over from, depending on when you read this) Halloween. I promised my wife and myself that I would not have any candy: Health reasons. But now I’m in my house. Alone. And I’m hungry.

Should I take some candy, or not?

It may not be illegal to eat candy, and people do it all the time. No big deal, right? However, I did chose my path: I committed myself to a diet that does not allow candy. It was my choice to enter into this “contract,” and to commit to it publicly by telling others—my wife, friends, coworkers, you, etc. So I really shouldn’t.

Here’s the thing: There’s a plastic pumpkin filled with candy on the little table near the front door of our house. There’s real food in the kitchen, but I’m closer to the little table near the door. And it’s not just any candy; it’s dark chocolate—my favorite. (Did I buy my favorite in anticipation of just this eventuality? Don’t ask; that’s not the point.)

There’s nobody around. Nobody will know if I take one piece. In the grand scheme of things, it’s just one little violation of my diet, of my promise, whatever. My wife cares about me, and she wants me to succeed on my diet. She’ll ask me about it every so often. “You still haven’t had any candy? Still on your diet?” When she asks, I can say I haven't had any candy, because one piece (maybe two) of candy really doesn’t count as going off my diet.

It’s really not lying, right? And besides, nobody really expects people to tell the truth in this situation, right? I can interpret the question like this: Instead of, “Have you gone off your diet?” my wife may really be asking, “Have you been caught going off your diet? Has it been proven that you’ve gone off your diet? There’s lots of candy; one (maybe two) won’t be noticed. There’s no way she’ll find out about a piece or two.

I should ask somebody whether this is really lying. But why bother? It’s such a small thing. I don’t want to bother anybody. And that would take time. The candy is here now. In a plastic pumpkin. Right there by the door. Right now.

Hey, everybody else gets to eat candy; why can’t I? I know I promised, but other people on diets—and other people who promise—eat candy. I’m being held to an unreasonably high standard. Other people get away with it. It’s just not fair that I should get caught and punished and the others don’t. I’m the persecuted one here. Really.

The diet says I can’t have any, but the diet is too strict. I’m being held to an unreasonably high standard. I know what the standards were when I promised, but, well, I’m hungry. And there’s a plastic pumpkin filled with candy on the little table.

One piece (or two, or three) of candy isn’t going to change my overall weight. No harm is being done. And it’s dark chocolate: They say it’s the healthiest kind. I’d be eating it for health reasons. When you think about it, I’d be breaking my promise if I didn’t eat the candy.

Daniel Kahneman (2011) says that when we’re under stress, we substitute an easy question for a hard one, and then substitute the answer to the easy question. My hard question is, “Would I be breaking my promise to people I love and respect?” My easy question is: “Am I totally out of control like other people who break their diets—gorging on every piece of candy in the neighborhood?” The answer to the second question is, “No.” If Kahneman is right, I’ll use that as the answer to the first question.

I think I’m all set (up).