I don't anticipate really being on top of this blog thing or posting frequent, unique or interesting posts. Still, I wanted to write something. It's been a couple weeks.Just a few minutes ago, while reading somebody else's blog, I remembered one of many really stupid lies I've told in my life. You may know the kind; lies that make me look worse, feel worse than had I just told the truth, lies that just plain aren't beneficial. Why tell lies that don't get me out of trouble or give me a good reputation or cover up somebody else's tracks or....something. I can think of a couple of these rediculous lies I've told:
Still too irresponsible to take care of a pet (but hoping, I assume that it would teach us), my sister and I got a puppy for Christmas. This cute cocker spaniel was a great toy and friend (when I was good enough to take care of it.) The lie came one day when the dog and I were playing in our basement. The basement was unfinished and one part
icular room was filled with boxes. I liked to play on the boxes and climb higher and higher up the magical staricase of moving boxes that seemed a wonderland for a young boy like me. The dog was big enough to hop up, one box at a time with me and we played together on the boxes. Then I jumped down 4-5ish boxes down to the exposed concrete foundation floor. I waited innocently as I expected my little friend to follow. It wouldn't. I couldn't understand why not; the drop must have been 3 1/2 feet -- nothing to fear. The scared, but trus
ting little soul jumped towards me after a deal of coaxing on my part. Our dog broke its leg from the fall. No, I didn't know that at the time, but we knew the dog was hurt. I was ashamed. The boxes weren't ours. We were holding them for friends of the family. Maybe I shouldn't have been using them as my playground. Maybe I shouldn't be playing like that with our puppy. I don't know. I knew it was my fault it had broken its leg.
The lie: in the same room was a bench and set of weights for lifting. I liked to carry the small 5lb weights. I lied and said I'd dropped one of these on our puppy's leg. The truth then
, was hidden. I lobbed a weight at my dog and somehow that's better? We had to give the dog away to our aunt because we (I) couldn't take care of it.
Another lame lie story started in 9th grade. Starting High School, I had the unlikely scenario of making a group of new friends who all came from a different Jr. High. I was new and fun, exciting to my new friends. I'd (finally) had a big growth spurt and I looked much less awkward than in years past. I had no shortage of girls wanting to date me and I thought this was cool. Now, "dating" at age 15 meant that a girl and I would acknowledge each othe
r as boyfriend/girlfriend, hold hands, giggle and exchange love notes. I would go through these girlfriends as often as I pleased. I broke a lot of hearts and built up my pride. I was a total jerk. My first two years of High School, I had a new "girlfriend" every month or so that I was in school. These girls became co
nquests/trophies to me. I am NOT proud of it. I am very very ashamed of the way I saw and treated girls then. Still, these girls were like trophies. The guys on my cross country and swim and dance teams would praise me for catching such a pretty girl. I'd feel proud. Alright. I was a punk. But where's the lie?
I've only ever kissed two girls. One (my first) of them was one of these "girlfriends." I didn't like it. I felt used and empty. It didn't mean anything. I didn't kiss again for 8 years. That time I made sure it
meant something. At the time, everybody assumed (and I let them) that I'd kissed every one of these "girlfriends" and even the ones that tried to date me but never could. I fueled it, thinking it was what was expected. I lied and said I'd kissed a lot. Truth is, I'd kissed one girl and vowed not to do it again. That kiss kept me away from dating or "dating" for years.
My parents tell me about how physically affectionate I was as a small kid. I'm really not that way anymore. Too afraid. I want every touch to mean something. How many girls have I held hands with? 3. Now though, I just don't want to hold anybody's hand or kiss them. The physical elements of a relationship are the scariest for me. I can commit my heart and my time and myself, largely to a relationship. Those things precede for me any physical signs of affection.
Unfortunately, I'm not done with my dumb lies. I could take up some space writing about these. Another comes to mind: in High School, there was a time (however short) that I rode my bike to school. O
ne of these days, I was riding home from school and was hit by a car backing up.
I scraped up one side of me, put a big dent in my bike helmet, and I had headaches for days. That's not the story I told. I just fell over. Lame me. Shouldn't even be on a bike I just fell over. I dressed the scrapes and cuts on my arm, hip, and side myself and threw away the now holey blue shirt I was wearing (which I didn't like anyway) in the outside garbage can. I still reported my broken helmet (expensive to replace), but not the bit about being hit by a car. Why on earth not? Yeah. I know. Still, I kept it to myself.
Then I stumbled across this picture on flickr. Taylor needs one. Hilarious! Though cruel to essentially disable your baby's mobility, it sure would be great to see and then be able to say "my baby looks good enough to eat." For a closing visual: imagine your baby has learned to walk. Who can resist a cheesy baby burger walking toward them? I wanna' Taylor burger!
