Day 20: Tiffany's broke my ring, but strengthened my marriage

You'll often hear me say that I do not believe in marriage. I think monogamy itself is something a bit unnatural physiologically, and while I do believe in commitment, the idea of legally marrying someone seems confining to me. You don't need to be labeled a wife or husband to be able to love another person. The ceremony itself is a bit of a ownership right with papers being signed, legal officiating, and the ring exchange. Those rings have often seemed like a brand to me. It's an outward sign to the world that you are a possession, you belong to someone else. I hate that. I hate being trapped, and feeling like property makes me feel trapped. Until today.

Today, I took our rings to Tiffany's to be cleaned. When I returned to pick them up, they removed the husband's ring from a small velvet pouch, but not mine. My heart began to beat a little bit faster as I waited for whatever they were about to tell me. It seems that when they were cleaning mine, one of the diamonds fell out and they would need to send it off to be repaired. The estimated return date is in 15 business days. I don't know what happened in the minute it took them to tell me this, but I began to feel a strange sensation of loss I couldn't quite recognize. Suddenly, the idea of going without this ring for so many days felt like an overwhelming burden.

This ring. This symbol of ownership. This ring I have looked at so many times, twisting it round and round my finger and thinking how much I'd like to not be property. In that instant I felt grief for something I claim never to have wanted in the first place. My eyes teared up, forcing me to look away as they asked for my address and told me that they could ship it to me or I could pick it up from them. My hand felt so incredibly empty and as I walked out of the store I began to feel almost shameful, as if I were impersonating someone I am not. How can a physical object come to signify not just a bond, but a life. without that ring I am not the same person. I miss its weight, it's sparkle, it's symbolic connection to a man I love more than any other person on Earth.

What is funny to me, is that many days I have taken off my ring while baking or cleaning and forgotten to put it back on. I have actually gone days without wearing my ring because I took it off and kept forgetting to put it back on my finger. I would remember suddenly as I drove away, or looked down at my own hand while paying for groceries, but would forget again once home and within steps of retrieving it. Today was hardly the first time I have not worn my ring, but the effect it had on me was completely foreign. Maybe it is because Jeff is currently in Iraq and the distance is so great that our rings are my only true physical connection to him. Or maybe my ring has become a physical extension of myself and when I found out that it was damaged I felt it as a physical blow. It hurt me and it saddened me.

When Jeff deployed to Iraq, he gave me his ring. This is partly for safekeeping and partly because there are so many things a ring can get caught on that it is unsafe. I have worn his ring on the middle finger of my right hand every day since he's been gone. Tonight I have his, but not mine and I feel unbalanced. I feel alone and wounded. What does this say about my cavalier attitude toward marriage? How can I still proclaim to prefer a mutual emotional commitment to a legal one, if the symbol of that legality is now so damned important to me?

Relationships are vulnerable and so much more fragile than we realize. Yes, love is strong, but sometimes it is not enough and yet we stay in a situation out of fear or habit. So while you may still be technically together, the loving relationship that brought you together is actually dead. In that case, it is not strength keeping you together, it is fear. Love can hurt. It can wound, it can be selfish, it can be cruel. Love is part of us and we are also capable of all of these things as well as the goodness we usually attribute to love. A ring that we wear to symbolize the strength of our love should not be vulnerable, because that means that we are also capable of weakness.

I have made some horrible decisions since being married. I certainly have said incredibly cruel things to my husband and I have put my needs ahead of his on more than one occasion. Yet, somehow, none of those things seemed to hit quite as close to home as suddenly not having that ring on my finger. I no longer have the comforting thought that once I return home I can simply slip it back on from wherever I forgot it. It is physically beyond my reach and in the hands of strangers. These people, whom I will never meet, are suddenly cradling the relationship I have not always been sure I wanted. I feel like our love is in their hands.

Rationally, I realize this is ridiculous and a bit hysterical and yet I still feel it. I have a choice to take off my ring. Every time I put on lotion or dye my hair I can decide to put myself first and remove that symbol. Each time I go out with friends while my husband is away, I could easily decide to ignore my commitment and go out without that symbol of ownership on my finger. We get to make that choice and while I do not got out without my ring, preferring instead to lambast our societal weaknesses and personal insecurities exhibited by legally binding our life with another, I know I could. Now, it's as if someone has taken that public symbol of our commitment away from me. Having it forcibly taken reminded me how lucky I am and how easily it could slip away should Jeff choose one day to stop putting up with me, or even worse, if something should happen to him.

My ring is a symbol of a choice I made. A choice to love a man with flaws and habits that may not please me. A choice to spend every day with another person. He is not perfect because he is a real person. I am lucky that I get to complain about what I see as a patriarchal ritual. I have friends and relatives who do not even get a chance to choose to be married. They are gay or living alone after the premature passing of their loved one. These couples do not have the chance to twist that ring around their finger and scoff at tradition and ritual.

There are days I miss being single, but I get to miss them rather than endure them. I don't know that I would make the same choice if we had the opportunity to do it over again. Perhaps, I would choose to simply commit emotionally and not legally or maybe I would live out my days playing the field. It does not matter. In this life, I choose marriage. That damn ring of mine is as much a part of my life as Jeff is and I want to keep them both close to me. Just as I would not one some stranger's hands fondling the husband, I don't want them on my ring either.

This is a silly and over-emotional response to something that is normal in the jewelry world, but I still feel it and that makes it valid. I have been too arrogant in my life, feeling invulnerable and selfish about some things. I assumed Jeff would never leave me, even when I probably deserved it, but I never stopped to consider what it might feel like if he was simply taken away. I felt that today in a small way and it scared me. I promised never to take him for granted and now I know I have. It's not diamonds that are forever, it's our ability to choose. Free will is the reason I am married. Not the Army and not society. I married a man I love because I wanted to. And maybe I wouldn't do it again, but I'll never be ashamed to be a wife or to wear that ring another day of my life, because the day I am is the day I'll know I don't deserve in the first place.

Day 19: The Wrath of Ame

Okay, so I'm a little behind today, but I still want to honor my commitment to myself. Still, it's after 3am and I am pathetically sober after being out all night. The only thing I really have to show for it are sore feet because my shoes were fabulous (so you know my feet are going to suffer). Seriously, why can't they make hot shoes that are also comfy? It's a clear sign that men are doing most of the clothing and shoe designing. Anyway, I'm off track. Tonight's blog is going to be short, but in the original vein of 365 Days of Ame it is going to reveal a truth about myself. Before I get into, however, I need to clearly and definitively state that I am NOT threatening anyone's life or wishing any person to come to physical harm. Nothing I state here should be interpreted as a literal threat.

That said, I want to kill my Stepfather. My Mother has been dead the past nine years so really, he's not even my Stepfather anymore, but we'll just call him that for argument's sake. This man came into my life when I was just eight years old and he ruined my childhood. I was never happy after that and he made it a point to constantly go behind my Mother's back to fight with my brother and I. For a long time after my Mother died, I fantasized about killing him. Well, I fantasized about that long before that day, but it helped it along after Mom was gone.

I have never met a more miserable person who cared less for others or did less for humanity. This man is a truly horrible person and even his own family seemed to distance themselves. This of course is just my opinion, lest the libel police are reading this. All I know, is that a part of me died when he came into our lives and the same is true for my brother and my Mother. This man appeared to us to be a truly selfish and manipulative person. I have never truly hated anyone other than a boy named Austin (and that has long since faded), but I hate this man and if he lay down in front of me suffering from a heart attack, the only action I would take would be to move the phone out of his reach.

It is a strange sensation to know that you could, in fact, watch another person die and do nothing to help, yet, I do not feel like a monster. He ruined three lives in the time I knew him, it's only right that at some point he should be made to suffer. If I had an alibi, this blog might be heading in a very different direction, albeit a more satisfying one. There really isn't a lesson in this blog. I am just admitting my intense hatred for another human being. Still, let me be clear in saying that I do NOT wish him harm or intend this to be a threat.

The strangest thing is that I don't really even actively hate him at this point. I mean, sure, if you mention him to me I might be reminded of those feelings, but he has been out of my life for years. It's really more a feeling of justice. I do not believe he deserves to be alive and while I acknowledge that I have no right to make that determination, it does not change the facts. I no longer fantasize about being the one to end his miserable life, but on that rare occasion when he does come into my mind, it is not altogether unpleasant to think of my cold and uncaring eyes being the last he ever sees on this earth.

Life is funny. You live, you love, you laugh, but we really don't hate all that much. There are plenty of little skirmishes or adolescent vendettas, but true hate is so powerful that it rarely becomes a part of our day to day life. I'm not even sure I hate him anymore. I just know that I would be a lot more content if I knew he was no longer walking around. And yes, I may be doomed for saying it, but if ever I have an iron clad alibi, I know what path I will choose.

Day 18: The Light Rail and Other "Miracles" of the South

I hate Southerners. On its own this might be a troubling statement as it is clearly prejudiced and judgmental, but it gets worse, I live in the South. Less than two years ago I moved away from my beloved New York City to follow the husband when the Army decided we’d been living too good of a life and needed to suffer. The first stop on our tour of suffering was Leavenworth, KS. The town of Leavenworth sucks slightly less than a trip to Walmart on a Sunday afternoon, but not much. After a 10-month stint there, we proceeded to Fayetteville, NC where Fort Bragg is located. For five agonizing months we lived in this hellish town of pawn shops, strip clubs and gun stores. Even though Fayetteville is located in North Carolina, it didn’t feel Southern due to its overwhelming military population, it just felt like the world’s largest trailer park. It wasn’t until Jeff deployed and I moved two hours west to Charlotte, NC that the true horrors of the South began to creep in.

Charlotte is a pretty decent city overall. Most people are transplants rather than native Charlotteans as they like to be called, although I prefer Charlatans, because it cracks me up. The city is fairly affluent and it is quite beautiful with lots of greenery, large well-maintained homes, a clean downtown (they refer to it as “uptown” here) and really friendly residents. I have met some amazing people here, but it is still the south and I still pretty much have to talk myself out of hating complete strangers on a daily basis. It’s not that these are bad people. They are hardly the slave owning, cruel bigots of decades past, their transgressions are not nearly that forthright. No, my big issue with the south is pretty much just that it and they, are Southern. The accent alone makes me want to take a fork to my ears in an attempt to permanently disable my hearing. I also dread how slowly they move and their unwarranted interest in the details of the lives of complete strangers. I’m also pretty tapped out on “y’all,” visors, blondes, pearls, and sweet tea.

Southerners aren’t bad people, they’re just different in a way that makes me want to hurl something heavy at their heads. They cannot help the way they sound and luckily, since most Charlotte residents are transplants, you only get the accent in about one of every three people you meet, but that’s really enough. I don’t know what it is about the Southern accent, but the minute someone opens his mouth and you hear it, the general assumption is that he must be stupid. This is unfair of course. It’s just a regional dialect, but knowing that logically does not change the fact that they sound really damn stupid. Sometimes I even find myself speaking more slowly or explaining certain terms to an “accent.” (Yes, my pet name for people with that annoying twang is “accent,” deal with it.)

Being a Yankee through and through, there are many little details common to the South that are unfamiliar to me. I talk fast, I walk fast, I do everything fast, but in the South each activity is an exercise in patience. People discuss things for what seems to be an interminable amount of time before ever taking their first steps toward actual action. There are perpetual smiles, and words of greeting that seem charming at first, but quickly become invasive when you discover that saying “hello, how are you,” isn’t enough. They want to know everything about you, and feel it is perfectly okay to ask you personal details and then share some of their own. I think it must be similar to what pregnant women must endure as random strangers try to feel up their belly. It’s just so personal for these people. Ever since I moved here, anyone I meet who finds out I’m new to town takes it upon themselves to try to investigate my life and tell me where I should go, what I should do, blah, blah, blah.

Hands down, my favorite question I get asked all the time, is the “have you ridden the light rail” question. It seems that Charlotte went and got itself a light rail several months ago. This is a convenient way to get North and South in the city and runs right into the heart of uptown. If you can park and ride it is actually an excellent way to get to the city center where parking is nearly impossible to figure out. I would say the frustration level of attempting to park in uptown Charlotte is similar to being stuck in line behind someone who’s child is repeatedly saying “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom” and the Mom in question refuses to simply say “What?” The light rail train can be convenient, yes, but anyone who has ever ridden a light rail knows that they are not exactly speedy or exciting. So why would a person ask if I’ve ridden the light rail with that look of anticipation and pride in their eyes? Am I missing something? I mean, it’s just a slow train, right? There are no rollercoaster-like hills or twists, so what’s the urgent need everyone seems to have to get me to go on it?

Maybe I just don’t understand the lifestyle down here. I don’t want to pretend to be friendly to everyone I meet and then talk behind their backs. I want to actually cross the room in less time than it took to build it. I don’t only root for sports teams when they’re winning. I think visors are ridiculous and make you look stupid and while we’re on that track, so do braided belts, boat shoes when you’re not on a boat, and croakies (those stupid string-like laces to keep your sunglasses around your neck).

There are also more serious things like racial issues. The south is all about black and white. Having previously lived in a very diverse environment with lots of races, religions, and cultures, the lack of ethnic diversity here is somewhat startling. What is really strange about it though, is how normal it is for these people to talk about things in terms of color. It makes me really uncomfortable and even my smart friends are guilty of it. It’s not that they are being racist, they just feel it’s okay to mention that someone is black or white all the time as if it changes the context of a story that otherwise is completely unrelated to race. Perhaps they are overcompensating for a shameful past that they are not responsible for, but are still carrying the guilt by association.

Speaking of guilty by association, maybe that is why I won’t allow myself to like the South. I don’t want to be lumped in with the accents, preppy clothing choices, sweet tea drinkers, tanning bed aficionados, or color qualifiers. I like talking fast and sounding smarter than I am. I am proud to consider myself a New Yorker and am not ready to give that up for the gentile life of the Southerner. So it’s possible that things are not really so bad here, but because I am not ready to be a Charlatan or Charlottean, for that matter, I’m focusing on the negative rather than embracing the charm of the South. Yes, it has charm, but I’m not ready to give into it. If you talk to me and you ever hear a bit of the twang seeping in, do me a favor and don’t let me know. It’s hard enough to like yourself when you’re a girl without becoming what you actively disparage.

Day 17: Cinderella Can Suck It!

I’ve never been one to believe in one true love or finding your “other half.” What I do believe is that you can and usually do, fall in love more than once and each time can be special and unique, just different. Even with my views that some might find unromantic, I do believe in romance and the kind of love story that transcends everyday life. I have had that kind of love and I believe I have it now, but sometimes you lose a bit of the Cinderella story in the quest to live real life. Fairy tale romances might be the ideal, but they are not easy to maintain in a workaday life. So what do you do when you lose the fairy tale somewhere in the reality?

We all know relationships are difficult. Love itself is hard. Perhaps when we were teenagers and both idealistic and inexperienced, the songs made sense. You know the ones: All You Need is Love, Love Will Keep Us Together, Saving All My Love For You, etc., the list goes on and on. The message is the same in each, that as long as you have love, your life is complete and your relationship cannot fail. Love, though intangible, is bandied about like a commodity in song, poetry, and story. It’s no wonder we grow up thinking our life is incomplete without love. Childhood stories are littered with references to love conquering evil and creating a happily ever after. When love turns out to be hard work it is a surprise to many, and often those relationships do not last beyond the “honeymoon phase” or that first 6 months to 2 years, depending on how good the “honeymoon” is.

Where does that leave the rest of us who are forging through the honeymoon and trying to make a life with the one we love? It’s not all rainbows and good days and as the stress of everyday life seeps in and the hazy glow of perfection seeps out, we’re left with two people just trying to make it work. The hardest lesson, I think, is in realizing that your chosen partner might not be everything you ever dreamed of. I’m pretty sure when my husband Jeff thought of his future love, he didn’t wish for a bitchy, self-absorbed slob, who is also oddly enough, a control freak. Not really a wish list for the prospective bride, but he fell for me anyway. I have many flaws and there many things he might secretly wish I could be that I’m not. Just as for me, I have reconciled the fact that he will never be cooking alongside me in the kitchen, or the neat freak I clearly need in my life, or the Harley guy to ride off with me for a week.

There are so many things that we are not and during the hard times it’s easy to get caught up in what is missing. I often wonder if we are meant to be with one person our entire lives. How can one individual meet all your needs? We have different friends for differing circumstances. I certainly would not call my Mensa friends to discuss Jennifer Aniston’s love life or my conservative pal when I want to go dancing at the gay bar. True, some friends are a bit of everything, but we still have more than one friend, so isn’t it strange to think we can go through life with only one love interest? Do we simply forget about those aspects of ourselves that crave certain qualities in another? If we do that, then we risk living an unfulfilled life and that can only lead to unhappiness. It makes sense then, that being unfulfilled and committed to another, might lead to emotional attachments outside of your relationship. If you’re not lucky enough to be with someone who fits you perfectly (the soul-mate I don’t believe in), then are you doomed to either partial fulfillment or adultery?

Maybe the answer isn’t to find fulfillment in someone else, but to actively seek to make ourself whole. It is unfair to expect someone else to make us happy in life. Our happiness is our own responsibility, so rather than look for that soul mate or other half to complete us, we should take on that mission ourselves. If I want a clean house, I guess I should clean it. If I want to ride on a Harley I guess I’ll have to buy one and learn to ride it. True, my husband can’t exactly undo the bitch in me, but he can take steps to find a peaceful place in his own life that my foul mood cannot collapse.

Since Jeff has been deployed to Iraq I have learned some difficult lessons in self-fulfillment. I have also realized that the burden of my happiness is mine and rather than selfishly complain about my life while he is stuck in a war zone or for that matter hiding from my life by partying too much, I am facing it head-on. I’ve started volunteering, working at whatever job I can get, reading more, writing this blog, making new friends and being thankful for the wonderful life I have and the partner with whom I am sharing the journey.

When we met, we were that fairy tale couple. Friends and family commented on how in love we appeared and our perfectly suited for one another we were. I felt it then too, that all consuming happiness that comes from meeting and living a life with someone with whom you are so completely in love. Unlike Cinderella, however, we are not living happily ever after. We live with the bumps in the road, the annoying habits, the miles between us, and the reality that we cannot be all things to another. Ours is a modern fairy tale and rather than a prince kissing and making it all okay, we’re doing it together and sometimes it’s bliss and at others it can be a real challenge. Still, I’d rather be in this story than any other and I will fight for my ever after.

Day 16: On the Road Again

Tonight I went for a drive. This is not an unusual activity for me as I love to drive, taking off in my car for hours at a time with no prior idea of where I will end up. Driving during the day is my favorite and it puts me in a good mood most of the time. The sun is shining, the top is down, and it’s nothing but open road and me. There is something so freeing in the speed and the wind whipping your hair back. Loud music, high rates of speed, weaving in and out of slower cars, I love it all and it never fails to help me reconnect with myself. Night driving is a different animal altogether and it wasn’t until this evening when I realized just what that difference is. At night, whatever emotions you felt during the day drop like a mask and the essence of your feelings reveal themselves.

At night, driving allows me to disappear. No one can see me or at least not my face. Whatever mood I’m in is mine alone. In a way, driving at night centers me. I play whatever music might suit my mood and I let myself get lost in the road. It’s not that I’m unhappy, although previous blogs have made it clear that I’m not exactly filled with sunshine, it’s just that driving is the one time when life cannot distract you. At home, although you may be alone, the chances are you’re busy. You’re folding laundry, cooking dinner, reading, or even watching TV. Despite physically being alone, you are distracted and your mind and emotions are otherwise engaged. Driving is an easy way to clear your thoughts. You can drive attentively without having to think too much about it, because after so many years it’s more of a reflex. My mind begins to wander and like the drive itself, I usually don’t know where I’m heading until I’m already there.

Many nights I am surprised to realize I am sad, or missing my Mother, or remembering happy times with the husband, or bad times with any number of other people. It’s kind of like dreaming. They say dreams are your brain’s way of working out things from your conscious life. For me, driving is the same. It’s not something I do consciously, but before I know it, my mind is going to whatever has been weighing on me the most. The beauty of driving at night is that be they smiles or tears, they belong solely to you. You can be selfish on the road. There is no need to explain your mood to anyone. Should a driver in the next lane happen to catch a glimpse of your expression, within seconds they are out of your life forever.

On the road, there are no children, no spouses, no bosses, no strangers. It’s just you and whatever your heart feels. In a way, it’s kind of like an emotional vacation, in that you don’t need to process or examine or direct, the emotions just come, purging themselves so that you can focus later on what truly matters to you.

The emotions you feel do not need to make sense, because when you leave the road and pull your car back into the driveway, you are you again. Out there, however, you are free to think about what it might have been like if things were different. If you had gone the career route instead of the mommy route, if you’d married Mike instead of Steve, been more than just a casual lesbian. The thoughts you cannot allow yourself to have in real life are born in the darkness. There are no guarded expressions, no awareness of posture or body language, there is just you and the freedom you cannot allow yourself during the day. No one will hear you laughing out loud or realize you have been crying. No evidence, no witnesses, no implications – and when you look to the sky, you can either be a part of the blackness or standing out against it.

This probably does not make much sense. It’s more a feeling I have and I’m not putting in the required analysis to make it clear in my writing. I guess though, that’s really the point, sometimes things do not have to make sense to still feel them. They are valid all on their own. You may not want me to feel certain things, but it doesn’t make it go away. I love, I hurt, I yearn, I remember, I laugh, I dread, I feel. Then I come home and I do the dishes, fold the laundry, read a book and watch some TV. It’s not a lie, it’s not even a mask, it’s just the person I am in the world versus the raw emotions underneath. Life is a choice, happiness is a choice, but your emotions do not ask to be, they simply are. Where we make the choice, is in how we express them and in the darkness on the road at 80 mph you can let them out and watch as they disappear behind you.

Day 15: My Illegal Fantasy

First off, I need to emphasize that I am a pacifist. I do not believe in war, weapons, violence (except boxing and hockey), physical parental discipline, or actually smacking stupid people in the head—although that one is tempting. Before making this next statement I should probably also state unequivocally that I do not believe in animal abuse. All that said, I want to beat my two cats with a heavy, blunt object most of the time. I do realize that karma quite possibly might smack me bout the head just for having such thoughts, but if you met my cats you’d know it is worth the risk.

I have two cats. Jeremy, a skinny, cantankerous black cat enjoys whining, making noise in the middle of the night and peeing on the bed when he’s annoyed about something. The peeing part has ruined three down comforters, a dozen blankets and numerous sets of sheets. Along with his talent for bed-wetting he has also chosen to actually pee on me while I am sleeping in the bed. This fun habit of his is usually spurred by my forgetting to clean out the litter box one day or not being home enough to give him the love and attention he feels he deserves. His logic might be a bit flawed on that one, because the more he wakes me with a golden shower, the less I want to give him attention, or at least the kind of attention that does not result in him flying across the room.

Sylvia, is a fat, slightly thick-furred, part Siamese with the most beautiful blue eyes and a loud, incessant meow that makes me want to muzzle her. Her talent is that every morning she jumps on the bed, walks up to my face and sneezes. Every morning. Her charming habits also include a love of water, especially the shower and she will sit on the edge of the bathtub meowing loudly for hours. In the past, I have been tempted to drown her in the shower she loves so much, but she would likely enjoy it, thus voiding the punishment aspect of that particular fantasy. Sylvia also enjoys shedding on every surface of my house and gorging on food until she vomits, but not on the easily cleaned hardwoods, no, she prefers whatever rug is nearest.

After hearing about the eclectic charms of my two feline houseguests people frequently cite my patience and marvel that I have not turned them out yet. I’m not quite a crazy cat lady, but there have been days at a time when the only creatures I have contact with are the cats. I talk to them, explain things to them, ask them questions, and generally interact with them as if they can understand me. I have never referred to them as “my children,” however, so I suppose that’s a kind of plus. Even so, they are my responsibility and I feel obligated to keep them happy and healthy, even when I wake to find a pile of vomit and a random cat turd in the hallway. I guess it’s amazing what we can get over or put up with in the name of love. Although, if it were the husband dropping stray turds throughout the house, love might not be enough to cover his ass, so to speak.

We do crazy things for our pets and sometimes the things we are willing to do, make us a little crazy in the process. I am thankful for the companionship they have given me over the years, especially in light of our frequent moves and the husband’s military deployment. I don’t have children and I’m not sure I will ever want them, but I do love my crazy cats and they comfort me when no one else can. Except for a random incident that involved me biting Jeremy and another episode in which I pinned Sylvia to the floor with a firm hand, I’d say I’ve been a rather gentle and forgiving cat parent. Still, there are plenty of days when I have luxuriated in the thought of euthanasia. The downside of that possible resolution, is its lack of satisfying physical whacking of the offenders. So maybe I’m only a pacifist in actions, but you can’t persecute me for my thoughts.

Day 14: Your Ass Does Look Fat & The Lies We Tell

Honesty is rarely truly honest. In fact, the absolute truth may seem like the easiest thing in the world, but it happens less often we acknowledge. Dozens of times a day we are given the opportunity to be honest and yet very often, that is not what happens. A friend may ask an opinion or confide a secret and your response might be based less on truth and more on kindness. We tell people what they want or need to hear and that isn’t always the same as our real feelings. What about if the truth will hurt someone you care about more than a lie? Or if that lie actually helps you in some way, even though it is hurtful to another? Do you still lie? Do you still cover the truth?

Best friends have a responsibility to be supportive to one another, but this might occasionally clash with what you actually believe. What if she is acting stupidly and you see the disaster coming? Can you tell her? Do you owe the truth or a shoulder? The same is true for your children. When they ask you if you have ever smoked or done drugs your answer may not be as easy as the truth, because sometimes the truth can cause more damage than a lie. In a society that tells us repeatedly that the truth is king it can be difficult to acknowledge that sometimes a lie is necessary.

Hurting the people you love through betrayal is an ethical breach. We are supposed to protect and honor the people we love in life. Respect and honesty go hand in hand, but just knowing this does not mean you will always be able to walk on the side of what is right. Mostly we commit a series of little lies. We sneak Bailey’s into our coffee, substitute decaf for regular, fat free for full, get out of a party with an excuse, etc. In these situations we are not lying to hurt someone. Perhaps our spouse needs to cut back on caffeine or to watch his cholesterol. Maybe you’re just not up to another party filled with happy couples when you are still single or your partner is away. Kids ask a hundred questions a day and many of them require delicate manipulations of the truth rather than the sting of reality.

My husband is halfway around the world fighting a war he neither started nor wants to be part of, but he believes in what he is doing. I am a pacifist, I not only hate war, I do not believe in the Armed Forces. After three moves in 16 months and six months gone in a year-long deployment I am faced with the decision to lie more often than I would like. Would he rather hear that I was out last night partying with friends or should I say I spent a quiet night home with a book? When an ex-boyfriend emails me out of the blue or wants to be friends on Facebook do I own up to not only the contact, but to the nature of the past relationship as well? How far do you go to protect the ones you love? Should I tell him that I spent an entire weekend crying or feeling sorry for myself because I am once again in an unfamiliar city trying to make friends and a life while missing him and our old life together? For that matter, does he tell me about the soldier who was decapitated by a rocket propelled grenade or watching as the guy beside him gets blown to bits? Do we really need to hear the truth? Do we actually even want to?

In a perfect world we would never do anything to hurt another and the truth wouldn’t cause hurt feelings. I don’t always make the best or smartest decisions and I have hurt many people in my life. What I can say, is that I did not lie to cause pain to those I love. If I lied, it was not a willful action to hurt someone close to me, it was less about them and more about me. While it’s true that we all have a responsibility to protect those we love, we also have an obligation to be happy and to true to ourselves. Once we start acting in the best interest of others at the expense of our own happiness and well-being we run the risk of causing even more damage. Do you want your parents to be happy and fulfilled in life even if that means they separate, or do you want them to stay together no matter what? We all did things as children and teenagers that our parents were better off not knowing. We survived and spared them the agonizing worry. As adults, sometimes we need to make that same decision even if morality teaches that a lie is wrong. The difference, is that now we are old enough to feel the hurt that a lie can cause. I may lie to protect you, but it still hurts me.

The best any of us can do is to try. Try to live an authentic life. I am this person and while there are days when I’m not entirely sure who that is, underneath it all I am the same at my core now as when I was a child. I make mistakes and I accept them as part of the flawed woman I am. Accountability is more important to me than never taking a chance in the first place. Each decision I make in life, each choice, no matter if it is good or bad, is my choice and I live with that. Regret is easy; people rationalize their mistakes and bad choices by having regret later. Regret will not unring a bell. A lie can be a kindness to help a friend, a gentle omission to protect a child, or a decision much more complicated.

For me, when you look at the facts I try to be an honest person and I do not like lying. The truth, however, may not always be the best path. That is a hard lesson to learn. Life would be so much easier if we could tell the truth always to everyone without worrying that we might hurt their feelings or cause pain. Sometimes those pants really do make your ass look fat and sometimes your happiness is worth a lie.