I could say that I never lie, but that would be a lie. The truth is that I lie. A lot.
I don’t think that telling the truth is particularly virtuous. Sometimes telling someone the truth only makes yourself feel better and make the person that you’re telling the truth to feel worse. The reason behind the lie is more important than the lie itself.
“What do you think of this new recipe I made?”
“How do I look in this sweater?”
“How are you feeling this morning?”
It tastes gross, you look fat, and I feel terrible, but thanks for asking.
Who are those answers going to hurt more, you or me?
So, yes, I lie all the time.
I like the recipe you invented. The grilled peanut butter and banana sandwich with blackened burnt corners that I praised, while I choked back chunks of mushy banana.
I like the too-tight turtleneck with horizontal lime green and bright yellow stripes that you fell in love with and got on sale.
I like that I only got three hours of sleep last night. It left me feeling unfocused all day, while you were full of energy because you got eight hours of sleep.
Cook me the gross sandwich, wear the unflattering sweater, and don’t let my crankiness ruin your day.
If the truth is going to make someone be dependent on restaurants and have a fridge filled with take out containers, have low self-esteem, or stop caring about caring, than I don’t want to tell the truth.
I like lying. Sometimes we don’t need the truth. Sometimes, the lie is better.