Zestful Blog Post #145
Writers need to keep their brains sharp and guts alive, and
one way to do it is be on the lookout for opportunities to lie. I’m not talking
about the lying we do in our fiction, which is, of course, the whole point. Neither
am I talking about malicious lying; my subject here is recreational lying. Recreational lying pumps your adrenaline and challenges your wit. I discussed
this a little in Zestful Post #54 (“5 Good Reasons to Make Stuff Up), but want
to expand a bit on it here.
Life is just too damn boring sometimes. Enough bloggers rant
about our hyper-risk-averse culture and our increasingly ensafened public
spaces (rubber cushions beneath the monkey bars; helmet laws). But I feel one’s
comfort zone is one’s own business, and it’s up to us to stay in it or step out
of it. Lying is such an easy way to walk on the wild side.
One of my favorite recreational lies happened at a summer
polo match in the Detroit area back in the 90s. (Someplace like Farmington
Hills, as I remember.) The Borders Book Shop I managed in Birmingham was an
advertiser on the local classical radio station, so I regularly got invited to
thank-you parties, which was a nice perk. For one such party, the station
(WQRS, anybody fondly and sadly remember it?) set up a lavish hospitality tent
at a polo match. Though I’d never been to a polo match, I guessed correctly
that one should dress nicely and be on good behavior.
I wore a crisp chambray skirt and a sleeveless top, which
just happened to expose the fresh blackwork tattoo I’d received on my right
upper arm a month before. It was a grasshopper, or locust, designed by me and
inked by a well-known artist in Ann Arbor. (Anybody remember Suzanne of Creative Tattoo? Another
bygone entity.) I’d wanted a symbol of strength and lightness, and thought the
hopper a good choice. Being so new, the tattoo was profoundly black and stark
against my white-girl skin.
[As seen in Skin Art magazine, vol.
1, no. 7. For real.]
It’s safe to say mine was the only visible tattoo on the
whole polo grounds. I might characterize the other guests as upper crust; most
were prosperous business owners and their spouses. I was experienced enough to
know, however, that most of them would be somewhat nervous coming to such a
hoity-toity event—this was Detroit, after all—and therefore vulnerable and
credulous.
As the horses thundered to and fro, I snagged a mimosa and
headed for the buffet of first-class delicacies. Three society gals of a
certain age assembled behind me in line. I heard a brief whisper, and turned.
Decked out in pastels and their afternoon pearls, they were staring at my
tattoo. One found her nerve and said, “Where did you—what’s—?”
“Oh,” I said with a smile and a shrug, “I used to live in
Los Angeles, and I was in a girl gang for a while. This was the initiation
tattoo we all had to get.”
Their faces were just so fabulous. Just writing about it, I feel the rush all over again.
Most recently, I recreationally lied at a restaurant in
Mount Dora, Florida. Marcia and I were getting up to leave, and the couple at
the table behind us were interested in the pork chop special. “What’s it
stuffed with?” asked the guy. The server took off to check for sure.
Without thinking at all, I leaned in and said, “Ze pork
shop, eet ees fabulous. Ees ver’good—ver’
good. You try eet, OK?” Somehow I sensed zey deed not speak Frainch. They gazed at me with respect, and when the server returned,
the guy ordered the chop. I nodded my approval, though I had eaten the steak salad. The couple’s eyes followed Marcia
and me to the door, and I just felt that much more alive.
There’s nothing wrong with taking vitamins and obeying the
speed limit in school zones. But recreational lying is downright good for you,
your brains, and your guts.
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