For one thing, I am simply so much better at it than you that I observe most people in their lies the way a parent observes their toddler’s first attempts at swimming. It’s very cute, but there’s still a good possibility you’ll drown doing it.
Second, dishonesty simply isn’t “cool.” Do I lie? Yes, of course I do. Typically to protect someone or something. As a salesperson, I’ve had to bend the truth enough to be untruthful (but not explicitly lying, in my opinion) in order to protect the company or industry. I’ve told lies to protect coworkers from reprisals when I knew they made a simple mistake they would not be making again. I lied to protect my step-sister when we were kids (she was more outwardly disobedient than I was). I lie to protect myself and my own interests, but not that often. Really. Maybe I’m so biased I cannot see my lies (and I tell them enough they become true, of course), but I consider myself to be a very honest and upfront person. I find it’s actually a very useful way of living, and people are somehow made vulnerable when you explain things to them openly. I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done, so I don’t mind being honest, so long as the statue of limitations has run out. I tell strangers in bars that I have “limited empathy” or “empathy issues,” and if they piece it together, they’ll ask if I’ve got some antisocial tendencies. I’ve told my fiance that I simply do not know how other people feel, and that I’m trying to figure it out, I’m just about 25 years behind on that lesson. My bartenders know who I am and what I’m about. They know I have no problem telling others exactly what I think and I have no problem correcting them for their misdeeds, whatever they may be (like taking up three seats worth of space at a crowded bar when you’re not even that fat). My bartenders know that I figure I’m antisocial and I think that gives me some leeway. If I tell you upfront who I am and what I do, can you really be that surprised when I do those things? No. If you’re caught in the way, that’s your own fault.
Point is, I’m honest. People appreciate my candor (they tell me this). My old coworkers, as much as I apparently intimidated them (said my bitch general manager from whom I spent all nine hours each day hiding), they all knew, every time, what I would say, how I would react, etc., or else I’d surprise them by being nicer than expected. Either way, no one was offended, and from what they told me, they appreciated that much more than our other coworker Tanya’s constant roller-coaster ride of friendship: one day you’re BFFs, the next she pretends you do not exist and tries to “accidentally” body slam you (by the way, I’m sure you’ve figured this or I’ve said it, but I change names here, and “Tanya,” I’ve always believed [pronounced like “Can-yuh”, not Con-yuh], is THE. MOST. WHITE. TRASH. NAME. EVER., so make what you will of my former coworker). One’s home is supposed to be clean, so when the sewer backs up and your house smells like shit, you complain about it and hate it and scream and cry. But people who work at water treatment plants don’t get upset that the workplace smells like shit: it’s supposed to; if the plant didn’t smell like shit, the rest of the world would. We all take our offense in response to the situation.
But as honest as I am, I am a very, very good liar. Maybe it’s because I know what the truth looks and sounds like so well that I feel so comfortable adapting those behaviors to the lie. I’ve been lied to a lot, mostly by my father. I’ve always been able to see through it, but I don’t think he is as adaptable as me, as much as I feel we carry the burden of the same affliction (gift?). I went to private schools my whole life, so I understand how to develop and make a point, and how to debate others’ points in relation to mine. He’s very intelligent, yes, but he never learned those critical skills, or at least never learned how to use them as an adult on topics such as “No, I did not burn down that house,” and “No, I did not forge your name on those documents,” and “No, I did not just color a clear rhinestone in with a blue sharpie and call it a sapphire.” Or maybe he is just so arrogant he doesn’t believe he’ll ever be discovered, and despite the wealth of evidence for his (literal) crimes, he thinks if he just keeps denying it, it will go away. But if you don’t answer the questions, the questions will continue to be asked. And everyone thinks it’s strange that for 25 years, you’ve been adding no additional point or information in your favor–just a “nu uh!”, Dad. Yes, dad, I’m talking to you. Sigh.
So that gets me to today.
Well, last week is when it started. My mother-in-law gave a me a wonderful gift: a leather briefcase. It’s beautiful and practical. I really do like it. The pockets are the perfect size, the organization of said pockets is great, and I take those things verrrrrry seriously. Let me point out here that I have a lot of experience with leather, both new and vintage, and all of my designer handbags were scored on eBay. I have ZERO problem with a vintage leather bag being handed down to me from a relative–that’s part of why I love leather in the first place: it’s the kind of material that many generations get to experience, and I think a lot of people are like that. My sister’s birthday was a few months back, and being strapped for cash, but knowing she’s always wanted cowboy boots, I gave her my old pair, which still look great. She was pleased as punch and, I think like most people who understand leather goods, felt no offense that the boots were “used,” which in this arena, can actually increase an object’s value.
When I first opened it, it had that smell. That old leather smell. If you know it, you know it. Your memory for scent is probably more reliable than any other form of memory. I excitedly asked my fiance (MIL was not present) if it was vintage. He gave me an emphatic “no” and insisted it was just really, really expensive because the leather was so nice it felt vintage from the get-go (for reference, I have new leather bags that started that soft, and they were about $450, but I digress). I looked it over, not to be critical, but to appreciate my new bag. I enjoy trying to figure out where the leather good came from, whenever I see used leather. I saw scuff marks on the feet, and the finish on the brass was wearing off some. Also, if you look closely, there’s a little bit of dust in certain little crannies, a few minor scratches over the body, and the suede shoulder strap has a small amount of pilling. I am not saying these are flaws or undesirable qualities in any way, simply that they exist and it seems this is a vintage piece, and I do not give even 1/36 of a flying fuck how old it is, unless it has some historic provenance, and Mary Tod wore it or something, in which case I would be over the moon with excitement.
I just want my fiance and MIL to be honest with me.
When I first went to use it, I pulled the shoulder strap out and tried to clasp it to the bag. The clasps were so old that the metal cracked, the springs fell out, and now I need to replace the clasps. No problem, that happens on old leather stuff, and is another reason why leather is awesome: it outlasts metal, bitches. So this morning, I go to use my bag for the first time (it still has a handle). I tell fiance that I have to take the strap to a luggage repair place and he asks why. I told him because the metal was so old, the clasps broke. He insisted it was not really old (maybe those scuff marks got there because it was so expensive that it sat in the store for so long that all of the constant trying-ons scuffed it some [but, he also insisted that it was so expensive it lived in a case, and I don’t know where they will let you handle cased goods so often they become worn…]). I said, “yes it is! I don’t care, just don’t lie to me!” He insisted I was wrong.
So I said, “Fine, if it’s new and that expensive, it will have a warranty. Tell your mother to call the store where she bought it and give me a return authorization.” If Coach can do free repairs (and, in my friend’s case, offer 40% off a new purchase since the old one was irreparable), then certainly this mystery brand that lived in a case and was passed up for years and years because of its price can do so as well.
I googled the manufacturer. I couldn’t find anything to suggest that this bag was made by a company currently in business.
Something tells me that I’ll have to take it to a regular luggage repair shop. That is fine with me. So totally fine with me. Just please don’t lie to me. I can see through it like a window.
My whole life, my grandmother has always bought me, my siblings, and my cousins (and now their kids) pajamas for Christmas. One year, she got me a blanket because I was living in a very cold climate, but the next year she went back to PJs. Last year, I received no gift from my grandmother, who had, until then, been very reliable with Christmas gifts. I opened up the package from my father. Well, whaddayaknow…. It’s pajamas!!! My father has never gotten me pajamas. His gifts are usually books, or music (CDs, instruments, accessories for said instruments, etc.), or gift cards to places that sell books and music, and he does this because those are the things that he knows about and understands. Those are the kinds of things that he likes. He’s never bought me clothing, and his few attempts at buying me jewelry (I mentioned the phony sapphire above, but there’s another story, too, that I can’t go into here) have been pretty disastrous. I had opened the gift over a trash can at work so I could immediately discard the wrapping. I was so pissed about the pajamas, I just threw them into the trash as well. Later, a coworker got mad at me because I could have donated them to Goodwill. Oh well.
I confronted him about it a few weeks ago. He responded with silence and told me that the kids at the correctional place he’s tutoring at have the “real,” problems. What he doesn’t understand as that for me there is no problem. My life is fine. I do not, however, condone lying, and I opt not to have liars in my life. That is part of why my life is not that problematic in the first place. The greater the distance at which I keep the liars, the better I fare.
So I wish my fiance would just fucking admit it. Maybe his mom lied to him and he’s trying to protect her. He’s a guy, he doesn’t know shit about bags. I, on the other hand, get all my fancy bags on eBay, so, yeah, I know a thing or two about used bags, and I obviously have no problem using one. Otherwise, I’d buy them all new. But frankly, unless it’s a shoe, leather goods are actually best used. It’s a beautiful bag and I love it.
Just tell me the truth so I can love you, too.
Oh, and do NOT get me started on her impatience regarding my “thank you” for the bag. I sent a thank-you card, which takes some time to both be written, and then delivered through USPS (and of course, traveling home, to where I keep my stationary, took a day as well). Is it as fast as a text message? No, it’s not. But a “thank you” text? Are you fucking kidding me? How sleazy! Who would not prefer to wait a few extra days for a handwritten, fuschia card with a gold hedgehog and confetti stars and little green waves on the envelope and a cute drawing of a puppy paw? Yeah, that’s what I thought.
loveablesociopath 