Confession: My dream job consists of waking up at noon, maybe
writing a few words on some cream-puff topic, sitting on my ass and
drinking dirty martinis while being paid through the nose for
basically doing nothing.
Confession: My dream job consists of waking up at noon, maybe writing a few words on some cream-puff topic, sitting on my ass and drinking dirty martinis while being paid through the nose for basically doing nothing.
Working hard and accomplishing a lot feels really good, but at the end of the day when I’m exhausted and feel like all I do is work, I wouldn’t mind changing my official occupation to professional bum.
Confession: I hate watching the nightly news because the newscasters annoy me with their sing-song recounting of events, overly made up faces and uselessly interjected banter.
But I pretend to be up on current events because the nature of my job expects me to.
So when people talk about things that I don’t know about, I just smile and nod or plaster a pensive, questioning look across my face and say something incredibly broad that could relate to any number of situations – then look it up on the Internet to see what they were talking about.
Confession: I’ve been known to fake tan and my hair is actually a lighter shade of red than it appears.
A numbing fear of stray strawberry blonde sprouts erupting from my scalp and causing people to confuse me with a tow-head keep me running back to my hair dresser as often as my bank account allows it.
I’ve got some other more juicy confessions that aren’t appropriate for print, but on the whole I live a life that isn’t too jam-packed with lies and secrecy.
I’m not sure if it’s age that has made me wiser to the world of half-truths or if people are actually lying more, but as of late it seems like people are hatching bigger and bigger fibs, and more important, being caught.
Remember the infamous journalist from the New York Times who fabricated the bulk of his stories?
Or the recent Wisconsin co-ed who lied about being kidnapped?
And I just read about a 20-year-old sorority girl from my old stomping grounds at Chico State that lied about being pregnant (she gave her friends some cockamamie story about a non-life-threatening tumor), gave birth to the baby in her sorority house during a social and then killed it in an attempt to uphold her story.
And those are only the relatively plebeian stories that have gotten picked up by the media and that we, the “informed” public, know about.
They don’t even compare to the tall tales spewed daily by entities such as the United States government and other professional liars – do they still expect us to believe they didn’t know about 9-11 before it happened?
Personally, I am a horrible liar – I’ve never been any good at it.
I stutter, can’t look a person in the eye and my cheeks turn pink (which is probably why I never pursued going to law school like my dad suggested).
I don’t know if it stems from my Catholic upbringing and being told by the priests that lying liars and the lies they tell get fast tracked to hell, or that underneath it all I’m more honest than I give myself credit for.
Whatever it is, concocting giant, bald-faced lies and passing them off as the truth is an ability that amazes me.
In my humble opinion, lying is the worst form of disrespect – to the person you’re lying to and to yourself.
If you feel the need to lie, then you need to rethink your actions and ask yourself if what you’re falsifying is the truth or yourself.
So from now on maybe I’ll try to catch a few sound bites off the 11 o’clock news so I’m a little more versed on what’s new in the world and let my naturally light red hair rock out in full force.
And just maybe I’ll quit my job and really be true to myself by drinking martinis all day while plucking out a few clever anecdotes here and there on my laptop.
Or I could screw everything I just said about lying liars and the lies they tell and continue fooling people into thinking I’m smarter than I really am, that my hair is naturally this fabulous auburn color and that my skin isn’t really pale and blotchy underneath my spray-on tan.
Now that I think about it, maybe lying isn’t as bad as I thought.
And maybe I’m not as bad a liar as I originally assessed myself to be.
Or maybe that’s a lie… or maybe not.
Maybe I just need a martini.
