Diptych
print Hello world.
Would it be a “good lie” – a pale little white lily of a lie – to say that I am confident about this project? That I am excited at the prospect of having an audience to my scrawl? That the very thought doesn’t terrify me, and that I don’t worry I’m dwarfed by my fellow writers in competency, experience and talent?
Is the good lie to grin, strut confidently center stage and declare to the world that, “I Am So Fucking Amazing!”?
Rhetorical questions, of course. But they are parading through my consciousness nonetheless as we kick off this Most Awesome of Awesome Projects slated to end with an orgasm of cakey goodness. Hello, fellow cakers!
print A history.
Those questions address a moot point anyway, as I was born without the liar muscle. It’s a handicap, really. The truth comes out faster than my brain can spin fiction. Earlier this year, I was asked on a probably-date by a colleague. It was fairly obvious what he was after, but not quite obvious enough that I could call him on it while standing outside of a press conference. Stripped of the comfort of my well-loved blurt, “I have a boyfriend – thanks anyway and sorry!” (Thanks, D, for being my excuse!), I had to come up with a good reason to not walk into this trap. You know: I’m helping a friend move. It’s my Dad’s birthday dinner. My grandma died. Big deadline in the morning. Or screw the details – “I have plans,” would suffice. Anything… Ummmmm….
“Sorry…”
::deafening silence::
“…I’m dog sitting…”
Totally true statement. Score!
Also, it’s 4 pm and no half-competent person needs the rest of the day to feed and walk a dog. But now I’ve blown my one chance.
“…so I’ll need to go home and feed and walk him, but I could come out after that.”
Epic, awkward fail. Terrible.
Actually, terrible does not even do justice to the train wreck that is me lying. A terrible liar plays with her hair too much, or buckles when asked to tell her story backwards. A terrible liar swears up and down that he has not yet had his dessert while donning a chocolate mustache.
But to really play in the big leagues, you have to take it a step further by practicing the art of the Self Tattle. My mother to this day likes to commit suicide by way of laughter while recounting the numerous times I snuck a cookie I wasn’t allowed or committed some other heinous offense and shortly thereafter came running to explain what I had done. Psh. Parenting me was a breeze (kidding!).
Fortunately for me, I gave up even attempting to lie years ago (see: dog sitting).
This past weekend, I went to visit The Boy one state over. On my last trip, I promised I’d see one good friend the next time I was there. And then I didn’t manage to make it happen. Literally while writing this, she texted me to say, “Long time no talk, how are you?”
Dude.
I JUST got back. I can’t IGNORE that I was just there, can I?
::fretting::
By now, you know how this story ends.
I suppose I am just too fragile to handle the remote (or not so remote?) possibility that I might be found out and have to endure reproachful looks. Or that I’d have to keep a detailed chart of lie details in my hole-filled memory so I don’t misstep. Or worst of all, that I might find myself floating above my body, watching myself red-faced and mumbling some half (nay, 2%) baked excuse while others look on, faces contorted in horror. Watching someone trying desperately to use a muscle they don’t have? So sexy.
This is my life. As such, I plead Insufficient Knowledge to Address This Prompt. Which amendment is that, again?
