Lying. Today I delve into the deep pits of secrets and lies and why we do it. This is actually my second blog about lies, but the first was more about honesty and had a different perspective. So I'm repeating myself, bite me. We all lie, every one of us, and if someone tells you they don’t, well then they’re lying. That’s not to say that all lies are equal. Certainly lying to your 87-year old Grandma that the pot roast she’s been cooking for approximately three days is not, in fact, dry is much different than say telling your Mom you got hit by a car to cover up the fact that you went riding on the back of some random’s crotch rocket after she expressly told you not to and then he wrecked and you limped home bloody and bruised . . . um, just hypothetically speaking. Also, yes I’m aware that might have been the longest, most poorly written sentence of my life.
Lying can be done to hurt or help. We cover up our own bad behavior as well as the actions of others with a well-placed lie. Sometimes we lie for no reason as in a story exaggeration. Then too, are the lies we tell to protect the people we love. This type of cover-up can be done for both selfish or caring reasons. A friend you betrayed would be hurt to know of your deceit just as much as she would be to find out you saw her girlfriend on a date with another girl. We never want to purposely hurt someone – well, that’s not true, in a fight with your partner around the age of 23 saying whatever is most painful always seems like a winner, but that’s beside the point. Lying tends to be born out of a self-protection instinct.
As children, our first lies are told when faced with getting in trouble. I still remember the exact moment I learned to lie. My older brother and I were playing in the living room when he broke a vase. Unlike family rooms living rooms were only meant for company and not for any actual “living,” so if something got broken it was usually something nice. Anyway, when Mom came into the room brandishing the wooden spoon she’d been in the middle of stirring the homemade beef and noodles with, he got spooked and said he didn’t do it. I should make it clear that it’s not as if she were going to actually hit him with it, the spoon just happened to be in her hand, but it was enough to convince Tommy that a lie was just the ticket. Being at an age when “the Mommy” still represented all that was powerful and just in the world, I was shocked that he not only lied, but that he got away with it. She didn’t punish either of us that day. I knew right then, that lying was for me and we’ve been pals ever since.
I lie about all kinds of stuff. I lie about liking or not liking certain food just to get out of eating it or to seem agreeable to my host. I lie about when I sent in the credit card payment when I accidentally answer the call from Skip, my friendly Indian customer service rep. Sometimes I lie about things that embarrass me. The dentist who asks if I floss always gets and enthusiastic yes despite my not even owning floss, just as when I trip over my own too-high heel I pretend it was something on the ground rather than a loss of girl-tration. (Girl-tration, is what I call the specific things women focus on, like walking in stilettos, keeping your legs together or crossed when in a skirt, not emasculating our men --even when they are being complete idiots, you get the picture.)
Lying is like a silent partner in life. You call on it for support, reassurance, escapism, protection, you name it, a lie can help you with it. Except when you suck at it. Personally, I can craft a detailed lie without a second to think ahead. I can cry on cue, add just enough detail to make it seem real, but not rehearsed, I’m a pretty damn great liar. Great that is, until you ask me a yes or no question. Because once you do that, the pretty little story I just made up goes south and I admit the truth. I don’t why I do this, I just have always been really bad at that part of lying. I think it’s because my Mom was so great and sweet and honest. I’m sure she lied too, but probably just the good kind.
Because I know I will crumble if questioned about the validity of any lie I tell, I learned at a young age to tell the truth, but in a way that people will take for sarcasm. When I would come home after curfew to find my Mother waiting up in the kitchen. I would flippantly tell her that yes, I was absolutely out drinking, having sex, and riding on a motorcycle and that tomorrow I planned to investigate the merits of marijuana. Shocked by my directness and doubting that I would admit to such things I was given a stern, “Oh Ame!” and off to bed she went. I did the same when I used to wait tables. Those annoying customers who ask for things one at a time instead of just thinking ahead used to aggravate me beyond belief. After an hour of constantly running back and forth for these plan averse idiots I would say something like, “ okay now, take stock while I’m here and decide if there’s anything else you might need, because I’m not ever coming back to your table." People loved this. They thought I was so funny with my witty banter. I thought they needed a drinking straw pummeled through their temple.
However we do it, lying is a part of each one of us. I try to be as honest as possible, sometimes brutally so, but karma’s an even bigger bitch than me, because sometimes the truth hurts more than a lie. I look back on my choices now and realize there are a few things maybe I should have lied about, but didn’t or at least lied better about them. Friends won’t always forgive you for things, partners can’t always understand, family isn’t always by your side. We have to earn these things and sometimes we’re just not good enough people to get the job done right, so maybe a well-crafted lie is the kindest thing you can do. Unfortunately, you never know that until the cat’s out of the bag and shitting all over your house.
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