Domestic Despair

“I didn’t see you at my book launch,” said a friend I met while shopping. “We had a fantastic night and the place was packed. Everyone was there, except yourself. What happened?”

The truth is I got engrossed in the latest episode of Prison Break and forgot about it, but, despite my brain’s censor being in the ‘off’ position, at least I knew not to tell him the truth.

“Ummmm, oh, Jaysus, didn’t I call you? Food poisoning. I’m sorry. Vomiting all night, must have been those scallops I ate in Killarney, when I was down there last week.”

(Memo to self: tell wife that if she runs into friend, I was very, very sick that night).

Stupid, stupid, stupid, I say to myself, as I walk away from the encounter feeling terribly guilty for lying to my friend and panicked that, somehow, he is going to find out the truth and hate me.

Another friend phones and the sound of his voice reminds me that I missed his little girl’s birthday. “I have a lovely present for C,” I lie, quickly. “I’ve been away for the past few weeks, so wasn’t able to get it to her, but I’ll drop down before the end of the week.”

Lying is a part of everyday life. We are always mentally editing ourselves, fretting that what we say might cause unnecessary hurt. “My daughter is so beautiful, we’re bringing her to a modelling agent,” boasts a neighbour. “She has such a lovely smile, we think she could become a TV personality.” Rather than pointing out that the child has a good face for radio, you assure her that, no doubt, she is magazine cover material.

“Why isn’t your column ready?” demands your editor, and you reply with a saga of crashed computers, and broadband that wouldn’t work, conveniently leaving out the part where you just forgot about it.

We lie so often that a lot of the time we don’t really realise we’re doing it. According to studies in the US, we all spend our time lying to about one third of the people in our lives, and most people tell at least two lies a day.

If you must be economical with the truth, size matters, and if you tell a lie, make it big. Never blame traffic if you’re late for work. Instead, explain how you were chased by a bull taking a shortcut through the fields and had to make a detour.

Don’t forget that you have used up that toothache excuse long ago, and a week on a fat farm has its limits. Bosses are inclined to remember that sort of thing. Whatever you do, don’t get all tied up in knots with a convoluted story that even your mother wouldn’t believe.

I once worked with a guy who rang in sick one morning, complaining that he had been stung by a jellyfish in the nether region, while swimming, and couldn’t move because that part of his anatomy had become painful and swollen. It was such an audacious piece of baloney that his boss let him off the hook, saying it was the best laugh he’d had all day. “Don’t forget to tell the doctor to take away the pain, but leave the swelling,” he told him, barely able to contain himself.

Are these little white lies as benign as we like to think? Not really. They can cause stress from the fear of being found out, of keeping your lies straight, and from the lousy way lying makes you feel about yourself. Besides, if you get caught in enough lies, people stop trusting you.

But how can you possibly tell the truth and still be compassionate? Should I have told my friend that I hate book launches and didn’t think much of his book, anyway? Or confess to the other buddy that his daughter’s birthday never crossed my mind? Of course not. There are other ways to remain true to yourself and still not hurt others.

Telling the truth has its advantages, but it is easier said than done. Don’t you just hate people who use truth-telling to say absolutely horrible things? “But I was only being honest!” they shout, usually after reducing some poor soul to tears. Telling the truth is not a justification for making someone feel bad. Count to 10 before you blurt something out.

A colleague once told me how much he disliked my new suit — 10 seconds before I was to get up and give a presentation to 300 people, completing destroying my confidence. Like, what was I supposed to do about it then? If you can, put a positive spin on a hurtful truth. If your wife/girlfriend/sisters asks if her jeans make her bum look fat, find a positive slant or die in the attempt.

When I finally confessed to my writer friend why I missed his book launch, he smiled gamely and said: “It would only happen to you. Don’t worry about it, though, it’s no big deal really.”

He was lying, of course. It was his first novel and a very big deal, but it was decent of him to pretend otherwise and made me feel better, honest.