The Big Lie - Part II

A Mother-Load of Lies

So as I told you in my intro, Hub only knew me as this congenial, laughable, light-hearted, devoted girl. But that was for the first year or two. And I never thought for a minute that any of that which I presented was devious or a lie. But it was.

The truth came out later. The truth that at three o’clock in the afternoon, I like shuffling around looking the same as when I first rolled out of bed – in faded housecoat, with medusa hair, and mismatched socks. That I want my own way or I pout. That I even throw things (not any more, but I did for a time). That I can be hateful and mean and completely unreasonable.

And as for pressing jeans, ironing shirts, polishing shoes? I don’t think so. Won’t be happening around here. Not routinely, anyway.

So you see what I gave Hub to believe about me so long ago was an absolute lie! This marriage, that I was so smugly convinced was based on honesty, really started out with a mother-load of lies.

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Now you know and I know what they all say. “You can’t deal with a liar” and “you can’t build a relationship on a lie.” And that is true except in this case there was a bit of a twist.

While I was lying to him he was also lying to me. What he led me to believe about his exceptional patience and long-suffering demeanor was as much of a stretch as my stint at the ironing board, my good humor, and my fixation with flawless grooming.

And another thought. I think we all readily assume that whoever authored the lyrics of that little chant… “Liar, liar. Pants on fire,” was simply writing a nonsense rhyme for juveniles. But perhaps that isn’t true. Turns out the phrase is a shrewd description (and discernment) of the dynamics of the lies that I told.

So now, with an expectation of doing better, I feel compelled to tell you how red-faced ashamed I am. I’m ashamed of all my lies and devious acts. And if I were to offer an excuse it would be this. ‘Lovers, through no fault of their own are inadvertently cast into a highly emotional state that cannot separate right from wrong.’ But that won’t do either because, for liars, there are NO excuses.

So I must live with my shame, confess my shame, apologize for my shame and promise never to do it again. I’m willing to do all that, but in the end there is an evil piece in my soul that I cannot purge. What is lurking there in a dark corner is a desperate marauder that longs for the good old days when Hub and I lived each new and glorious day with such wickedness and complete disregard for truth.

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So in conclusion, there you have it. And even though I’ve apologized and humbled myself to the level of a ground crawler, I still can’t find a way to feel the teeniest, tiniest bit of remorse.