all i can think of is coach calling her parents before christmas to tell them she lost her job. it must be humiliating to be told you were inappropriate towards the one person in your life who would listen to you besides your parents.
i just ruined someone’s life because i wanted to look better.
i’m such a fraud. i believe it. fucking two-faced. but also open-minded. except for show.
how are so many people affected by innocent bystanders? how are we so immoral?
— Abigail Van Buren, Dear Abby; in response to a reader who complained that a gay couple was moving in across the street and wanted to know what he could do to improve the quality of the neighborhood.
LIES. There’s something so sinister about the word.
But sometimes lies can end up being someone’s everything. We lie to each other, we lie to ourselves. And while obviously everyone would agree, ‘yes, of course lies are wrong’…there is something inherently comforting about a lie. Whether its a white lie, an oh-of-course-you-don’t-look-fat-in-that-bikini lie, or a big lie, a yes-he-loves-me-why-else-would-he-say-that lie, a make-yourself-feel-better-about-your-miserable-fucking-life lie, a lie is still a lie. They fester and bubble until we can’t just forget about them. Even the smallest of lies eventually haunts us with the guilt that we have kept a secret.
Lies are interesting. They start as the seed of an idea, or a word, or even an action with dishonest intentions. As soon as we get used to, or at least get away with, the seedling, roots of habit begin to grow. We continue the lie, or even plant new seeds in our ever-growing gardens of doubt and selfishness. Eventually, we are harvesting the blooms, the consequences of the lies. Whether beautiful, or useful, or harmful, we are responsible for our crops. After all, we are the farmers, love it or hate it. If we neglect our lies, ignore the bitter taste the fruit leaves in our mouths, we also turn our backs from the inevitable: our lies will continue, and cast more seeds into the air. These seeds will again go through the cycle of growth, and before we know it, we are staring at acres upon acres of beautiful, horrible, wonderful lies. As farmers, we know that this will happen…we know. And yet we still are dumbstruck once we realize the immensity of our ‘harmless’ lies.
The vastness is astounding once we take a step back. It is consuming, really. And although, upon witnessing the results of this exponential growth, we may realize that such planting was not the best decision, what choice do we have but to keep up with our farming? As long as we continue the lies, we are in control. We determine our past, and if we are willing and able to lie to ourselves, we can decide what our present is like. We can even convince ourselves of our futures. What we don’t realize, though, is that after time and growth, the farm controls the farmer. Sure, the cultivation of the lie brought it into being. But does not the farmer follow the growing season, and stick to the watering and feeding of her farm on a strict schedule? The lack of control, the no-railing-to-guide-you-up-the-stairs feeling of farming these lies—now this is consuming.
And oddly, it is exhilarating. Lies are exhilarating. A rush. A sense of power, mixed with the handcuffed feeling that we all find so very sexy. Say it out loud. Lies are incredibly sexy things. We are unable to resist them, seduced by what they have to offer. It is not until we are committed to them, not until we are in bed with the lies that we realize: lies are lousy, selfish lovers. They take and take, and in return? Satisfaction rarely comes. We either learn to live with them, and hope we can again find the appeal that was once there for us, or we find our way out of the abusive, one-sided relationship, and live happily ever after.
As for me? I never did identify with once upon a time.
Mediocrity seems to be everywhere. At work, in classrooms, on teams; everyone seems to settle for the least amount of effort, the worst acceptable result. What I don’t understand is why. To fail is a horrible thing…but to just barely succeed—no, to just miss failing—this is celebrated. Our mentality is carried over from the ideals of our capitalistic society: pay as little as possible for the lowest value of acceptable product. I’m fearful. Of mediocrity, and what this means about our culture. Where is the effort? Where is the concern? What happens when the standards of our societies are lowered, and mediocrity becomes even more paralyzing?
