everyadventure
02-21-2011, 01:17 PM
Would you like to know a secret? Look beneath my mattress. Grab that green book. It's a journal of sorts… actually, it's a diary of lies. It's a habit I've had since the age of eight; every lie I tell, big or small, white, black, or grey, is carefully logged and dated. I used to keep track of the week's lies on a sheet of lined paper, torn from my Spelling notebook. I'd take it to confession, and dutifully recite every infraction into the dimness. Eventually the priest would sigh when I entered the booth; I could hear him settling deeper into his cushion. Sometimes he'd try to cut me short: "I see, you told some untruths," and would then assign my penance. But that seemed unforgivably risky-- did I chance being damned to purgatory because some lie went unaccounted? The priest assured me I did not, but I had my reservations. So I keep my lies in a book, just in case. Should I ever be called on to chronicle my misbehavior, I will be ready.
I'm on my seventh book. You may think that's a lot of lies, but if you tried it for a day, you'd realize you're a liar too. You told your mother you had company and you'd call back later. You told your co-worker you liked her haircut. You told your husband you had a headache. Those lies add up in a hurry.
At times it's hard to tell what qualifies as a lie, what belongs in the book. A broken promise? Even if I meant it at the time I said it? What about half-truths? Omissions? Silence when I should have spoken? But I strive to be honest about lying, and I think I've done a pretty good job of it.
If you take the time to look through my stack of diaries, you can watch me grow up. What did I lie about when I was eight? I stole my friend Marcy's Daffy Duck Pez dispenser, because she wouldn't share the candies…not one! Also, I told everyone in my Girl Scout troop that my father was a movie star; he lives in Hollywood because that's where all the movies are made. You've probably seen him, you know the older guy with the dark hair and whiskery chin? Yeah, that's him.
At 12, I lied when I said, vehemently, that I did not love Jack Butler. It was a silly, desperate lie, and no one-- especially not Jack-- believed me. Once I wore a bandaid to cover a zit and told everybody I'd hit my head on a cupboard corner. And I also told my grandmother I liked the purple sweatshirt she gave me, even though it was appliqued with a cat.
Things get interesting in Volume III. Sixteen-year-olds breathe lies. Fierce denials to parents: those aren't mine! And equally fierce claims to friends: of course I've done that! Lies to sisters: I didn't take it. To boyfriends: it's okay, I'm ready. And to priests: there's nothing else, Father.
Marriage complicates lying, as it complicates everything else. Try this experiment, and you will notice that the people you lie to most are those you're closest to. Maybe you don't want to hurt their feelings: of course it was good for me. Or you simply want them to believe you're the person they want you to be: I made it from scratch. Other times, you're trying to protect the tender underbelly of your relationship: I forgive you.
Sometimes I imagine someone, decades or centuries hence, finding these books. They'll read, August 9, 1992: My daddy gave me these earrings and they're real diamonds. January 14, 1999: Greg's parents were there the whole time. November 3, 2002: I do.
And they'll think it's all true, every word.
I'm on my seventh book. You may think that's a lot of lies, but if you tried it for a day, you'd realize you're a liar too. You told your mother you had company and you'd call back later. You told your co-worker you liked her haircut. You told your husband you had a headache. Those lies add up in a hurry.
At times it's hard to tell what qualifies as a lie, what belongs in the book. A broken promise? Even if I meant it at the time I said it? What about half-truths? Omissions? Silence when I should have spoken? But I strive to be honest about lying, and I think I've done a pretty good job of it.
If you take the time to look through my stack of diaries, you can watch me grow up. What did I lie about when I was eight? I stole my friend Marcy's Daffy Duck Pez dispenser, because she wouldn't share the candies…not one! Also, I told everyone in my Girl Scout troop that my father was a movie star; he lives in Hollywood because that's where all the movies are made. You've probably seen him, you know the older guy with the dark hair and whiskery chin? Yeah, that's him.
At 12, I lied when I said, vehemently, that I did not love Jack Butler. It was a silly, desperate lie, and no one-- especially not Jack-- believed me. Once I wore a bandaid to cover a zit and told everybody I'd hit my head on a cupboard corner. And I also told my grandmother I liked the purple sweatshirt she gave me, even though it was appliqued with a cat.
Things get interesting in Volume III. Sixteen-year-olds breathe lies. Fierce denials to parents: those aren't mine! And equally fierce claims to friends: of course I've done that! Lies to sisters: I didn't take it. To boyfriends: it's okay, I'm ready. And to priests: there's nothing else, Father.
Marriage complicates lying, as it complicates everything else. Try this experiment, and you will notice that the people you lie to most are those you're closest to. Maybe you don't want to hurt their feelings: of course it was good for me. Or you simply want them to believe you're the person they want you to be: I made it from scratch. Other times, you're trying to protect the tender underbelly of your relationship: I forgive you.
Sometimes I imagine someone, decades or centuries hence, finding these books. They'll read, August 9, 1992: My daddy gave me these earrings and they're real diamonds. January 14, 1999: Greg's parents were there the whole time. November 3, 2002: I do.
And they'll think it's all true, every word.