A Peine For Your Thoughts

Liar Liar, Your Pants Are On Fire

November 11, 2009 at 2:27 pm | Posted in Guarantaryn | 3 Comments
Tags: Ferragamo, humor, lying, post office, purses, vintage

Growing up, lying was my most repeated offense. I like to think it was because I was too creative for the truth. The truth was obvious, often. And boring.

My parents didn’t really ever see it that way. So, I got to spend time in my room, after being hoisted up to read the Maxwell plaque aloud to remind myself not to march out into the world, tell a bunch of lies, and mess up the good family name I’d been blessed with.

As you can imagine, the idea of the white lie was not introduced to me until I was about 24. I was having such a hard time grasping the notion of why I needed to tell the truth, even when it was both obvious and boring, that it didn’t seem feasible that I could ever understand when it would actually be OK to lie a little.

Now, after a lifetime of focusing on telling the truth, when I do slip in a small white lie, to preserve someone’s feelings, I feel guilty. So guilty. My mom’s words echo in my head. “Nothing is easier than the truth.” “A liar can never keep up with all of her own lies.”

As it turns out, even a white liar can’t keep up with her own lies.

Yesterday, I was serving my own personal sentence in hell, also known as waiting in line at the post office. I had the misfortune of standing behind Life Story guy. I was surprised to see him at the post office. Usually he just sits by me on airplanes. But why not add Life Story guy to my hell? It only makes sense.

Lucky for me the line was extra-long, so we got all the way to all the awards his son was receiving in private high school (we started during his son’s entrance exams–to get into private elementary school) before it was his turn in line. Then it was my turn. I took a deep breath and tried to be kind. As I approached the woman behind the counter, she gave me a wide smile.

“Girl, I see you got your vintage Ferragamo today!” My head was still swirling with high school robotics competitions. I gave her a befuddled look.

“Oh, surprised I recognized it aren’t you?” She leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s my thing. I always know what type of purse ladies are carrying. I’m known for it. And vintage purses are my specialty.”

I looked down at my purse. Vintage: 2009. Designer: Target.

“Oh! This old thing! You have a good eye!” I had opened my mouth to tell the truth, and to my amazement, without consulting me, my mouth had spit out a complete and utter lie. It was her thing. I just couldn’t rain on her parade and let her know that she hadn’t just been a little off. She had been way off.

“So. Where did you get it?” My mom’s voice popped into my head. “Eventually liars can’t even keep up with their own lies.” I had no idea where to get a vintage Ferragamo.

“It was a gift!” I spluttered.

“Girl, what a nice gift! Who got it for you?” Visions of my mom’s arched eyebrow swam into my head.

“My mom!”

“So what year is it? Is it vintage?” I searched my brain for acceptable answers. What was considered vintage in the purse world? What if I said a year that was before Ferragamo even started designing purses?

“Um, I think it’s not vintage,” I said, falling deeper into my own well of deceit. Only at this statement did she start to look at me like I was lying. Why was I surprised I’d been able to carry on for so long? I would have had my master’s in lying if my parents wouldn’t have grounded me.

“Are you sure? It looks vintage.”

“Um, well, you know what? I’m going to ask her. I’m going to call her right now. I should know what year this purse is. It’s my prized possession.” She wasn’t satisfied with this. She was starting to look at me like I’d stolen it. I had to change the subject. I looked down and saw my package, the entire reason I’d subjected to myself to spending lunch in this heck hole to begin with. “Can I mail this priority?” I finally managed to squeak out.

She stamped my package, took my money and watched me carefully as I slung my non-vintage, non-designer bag over my shoulder and tromped out.

Now I have to find a new post office.

My mom was right. Even at 27, lying still isn’t the answer.