To lie or not to lie (that is the question)

“Lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off.”

Haven’t seen that movie (I haven’t seen most movies. I kind of rewatch the same three David Lynch movies and then throw in a couple from whatever fixation I’m having in the month. Right now it’s dirty Hollywood. Very interested in William Desmond Taylor) but personally, most of my fun does not come from taking my clothes off. Almost none of it, really. Lying, however…

I wouldn’t call myself a liar. I don’t set out trying to lie and I don’t get any sort of thrill from doing so, unless it is to mislead a strange man on the street. The other month a man came up to me as I waited on the train platform. He started out in French, complimented my outfit (to which I replied: oh merci, c’est très genial. God. I was tired, okay??? I’m still embarrassed) and asked where I was from.

“The United States,” I said. I refused to switch to English even though I was struggling badly. It was eleven am on a Saturday morning, I’ve got no clue why I was so exhausted. Anyways, I didn’t lie yet.

“No way. I’ve never met an American in [tiny ass town where my parents live]. That’s crazy.” He said. He was like, thirty, and balding. I’m eighteen. I look eighteen, if not younger. “What part are you from?”

“California,” I lied.

He was very impressed. “What? And you’re here? What part of California.”

“Yeah, I live in Paris by myself. I go to high school there. I’m just out here visiting my family. I’m from La Jolla.” (All of these are lies. I do not live in Paris by myself. Not yet. Please pray I get my money up I am not meant for the countryside)

Now I’m very interesting to him. I am now the only American in this town, and I have this fabulous life that doesn’t make any sense. “Oh wow. I want to move to California,” every Millennial French man wants to move to California. “Do you ever go back?”

“Oh yeah, I go back all the time. I’m going next week to visit my friend. She lives there too.”

“No way.”

“Yeah.” I took out my mothers old Chanel compact and started doing my lipstick. I’d stopped making eye contact with him sentences ago. I thought that by whipping out a mirror and doing my makeup, he’d get the hint that this wouldn’t be going anywhere.

But he lingered! The train was delayed, as well, so I was trapped with this thirty year old man on this tiny train platform. I just wanted to listen to music and bellyache about my shitty life. It wasn’t even that shitty by that point. I’ve just always been dramatic.

He was silent for a while, seemingly mustering courage to ask: “Could I get your contact?”

I don’t look away from my mirror. “I’m fifteen,” I tell him.

“Oh,” to be honest, I should’ve told him I had a boyfriend. That usually works better than saying I’m a child. “Well, have a nice day, then.”

I thought about that interaction on the train ride. I accidentally walked by him while hunting for a seat, but I ignored him. I felt absolutely nothing from lying to him, no sort of thrill or anything! Maybe I’d be farther along in life if I got pleasure from misguiding others. That’s probably why there’s so many male CEOs. I suppose I could have told him nothing but the truth, I could’ve answered his final question with:

No, thanks. You’re not my type.

But there’s this certain politeness drilled into me (and most women) that men fail to see. For starters, I hate rejecting people. It makes me feel sad for them, because being rejected is actually one of the shittiest feelings known to mankind. Like a very tall lady took a Louboutin and stabbed your heart with it. Though there’s probably those who enjoy that… anyways. So I lie to the men on the street! If they make me uncomfortable, I tell them I am a child (it was true until a few months ago, so now I have to panic decide an age in French, and I’m shit with numbers in any language). If they are perfect gentlemen, I tell them I have a boyfriend. Sometimes it’s a mix of both.

Let me go on another male tangent for a moment. Tell me why I’ve been in this microscopic town for two months and I have never been asked out more. This is not a cause for celebration. This is HORRIBLE. There’s about nine and a half people in this town and eight of them are scary old men and they’re asking me for coffee non fucking stop. Guys, I am walking my dogs in pajamas and also I am crying. Now is not the time. Neither is when I’m walking home from the store with headphones in and the biggest bag of groceries you’ve ever seen. Also I look like a teenager. Because I am one. NOW IS NOT THE TIME!

I was on the phone with my friend Miles and a man walked by me. He stopped, called out to me.

“Oui?” I asked, holding the phone in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

“You speak English?” he said. His accent sounded strangely British.

“Yes…”

“I don’t,” he switched back to French. “Let’s go get a little glass of wine.”

“I’m eighteen. No, fuck. My French is bad. I’m sixteen.”

He laughed menacingly. He had to be forty. “You’re sixteen or eighteen?”

“Sixteen.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes! Goodnight!” and I scurried into the night.

The final example of this in relation to the creepy men of my unnamed town… and this one is a doozy. I was walking home one afternoon, groceries and headphones, the works, and I saw a man at the end of the sidewalk. This didn’t really bother me because unfortunately men are allowed to loiter wherever they please. Kidding. I don’t actively dislike all men. Just most of the ones who interact with me. Anyways, I saw this man and thought nothing of it. Probably just walking home, too.

I get to the end of the block and glance both ways to cross the street, and there he is again. An old white man with a wife-beater and a thin ring of grey hair on his head. I ignore it again, I’m almost home, and I don’t really consider the idea that somebody could follow me home. Is that insecurity? I feel like that’s probably something I could unpack further, but nobody wants that.

As I reach my front gate and punch in the numbers, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I yelp and whip around. The man stands there, grinning. His teeth are brown, he smells like alcohol.

“Excuse me,” he says, in French of course. “I found you so charming. Please, tell me, are you single?”

I shake my head nervously. His touch made me lose all sense of composure. “No. I have a boyfriend.”

He makes a tsk sound, then smiles again. “And are you loyal to him?”

The fuck? I have never, not in all my years, been asked that. I refuse to let French stereotypes invade my worldview, but that was like an American comedian had written it. “YES!” I say, and slide through the gate. Now we’re staring at each other through the bars.

He wraps a hand around one of the bars. “You sure?”

What is it with these fuckers and asking if I’m sure? “Yes. And I’m seventeen.” I turn around, start to walk away.

“I’ll come back!” he doesn’t say in in a threatening way, but holy shit. What a nightmare. I’m shaking as I go inside. My dad hugs me, he says I should’ve called him. I was standing right outside, I snap at him. When would I have time to call you?

That night I was nervous walking the dogs. This is when I wish I did have a boyfriend. A really grossly buff one who I could put in my yard like a pitbull and have him prowl for creeps. I haven’t seen any of these men since. I wonder if they have a little support group, if they all avoid me on purpose. The American girl with many ages and the mysterious boyfriend… I mean, God bless. I hope never to see them again.

This was supposed to be about lying, right??

I need one of those leather wearing ladies to stand on my desk and whip me when I get off task. I would be dead by the end of the night, it is insane how many times I get distracted in the span of fifteen minutes. Are there dominatrix’s who specialize in study assisting? I think that could be an untapped market.

I think my original point to this whole thing, before my tangent about necessary feminist lying (that could be a band name), was that I do not lie for the thrill of it. Rather, it just happens. And I was raised by two incredibly stubborn parents, so much so that I feel a sense of pride when I admit to being wrong. So, often times I’ll lie without thinking and then have to keep that lie going until it dies. There is one specific lie I have told so many times that I started to believe it. The horrible part is, I lied about it in a different way to so many different people that I’ve lost track of who thinks what about what, and I have to just guess every time it’s mentioned. What a horrible thing. Don’t lie, kids. It isn’t fun if you’re an easily stressed person such as I. This is why it’s good that to know people with memory problems, because they don’t remember anything I say! Maybe that’s the moral of this story. If you’re a pathological liar, just make friends with people who can’t care to recall what you said. Go hit up the dementia ward, friendship is just around the corner.

Wait. That makes it seem like I am a pathological liar. I AM NOT. That was strictly a joke. I only have that one elaborate lie that I will one day untangle. Just not today.

All this to say… lying is not the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off. Dancing to Be-Bop-A-Lula is. What a fantastic fucking song.