Liar Liar

My Policy of Honesty

Honesty as the best policy has been one of my creeds since it was hammered into my head at Sunday school as a small child.  With the threat of eternal damnation and the contribution of many a childhood story about the pitfalls that befall a liar, the philosophy of honesty was woven into the fabric of my person.  Not a blunt, hurtful honesty, but a pastel shade of gentle honesty.

Gives me shivers! Photo by mahdi rezaei on Unsplash

When I was a child one incident that illustrates my own propensity to self-manage my honesty was when my mom queried whether my childhood fingers had been in her makeup.  My vehement response was one of innocence; though, I was complete guilty of this cosmetic crime.  Wrestling with my conscience for the entire morning, the truth finally spilled from me admitting my misdemeanor.  Other than a serenely-clear conscience, I was admittedly slightly disappointed that my confession didn’t yield appropriate appreciation  Granted, any punishment was withheld, but if this had been an incident in a childhood story, there would have been a parade in my honour.

But

Like all good policies, however, mine has one exception…well, maybe more than one, but this is a blog post, not a tell all.

The Lie

Lying in a padded chair with a fluorescent light powering down on my face highlighting every twitch, every flaw, every blink, my composure is unflappably calm, measured and prepared for the question that is coming from my masked inquisitor.

“Have you been flossing?”  Asks my dentist of 40 plus years.

“Yeth,” I reply and smile, as much as you can do with hands in your mouth…but we both know I’m full of it. 

The Dance

This has been a dance my dentist and I have been playing since I have had to use a stool to get into the hygienist’s chair and could take moral responsibility for the state of my teeth. Heaven forbid he tack any more onto that question like “daily” or “regularly.”  On those occasions, my conscience does a small tweak, and with my fingers crossed as I respond, I promise myself silently to floss daily for the next two weeks in flossing penance.

It’s not that I don’t floss.  I’m just not what you would call a consistent flosser. I am more of a how-tired-am-I…is the moon aligned with Venus…flosser.

The dentist though at this point in his career just expects the lie.  You can see the resignation in his eyes after being lied to by every patient who has sat before him.

In fact when my son was old enough to know the value of a well-placed lie, he completely flummoxed the dentist.  Upon asking the flossing question, my son looked him directly in the eye and replied, “No.”  After taking a few moments to collect himself and a weak chuckle, he gave him a small jab in the arm and said “do better.”  I admire that kind of honesty, but wouldn’t be quite as adorable coming from a 40+ year old woman.

Pick Your Moments

Now I’m not purporting lying as a standard practice. However, to maintain a professional relationship with the person who can potentially hold a drill to your head seems reasonable. In fact I don’t just recommend, I encourage lying in this instance. Think of the anarchy that would ensue if we all started to be honest with that question.  Our free sample size (or as I like to call it…year’s supply) of floss gifted by the dentist would dry up.  Flossing industries would come crashing down…though I’m pretty sure they’re subsidized by the government.

It’s just not worth it. Lie to your dentist. Preserve the relationship.

Lying through your teeth doesn’t count as flossing. – Unknown

I bet he flosses. Photo by Kseniia Ilinykh on Unsplash

My Breast Self

Yes, you read the title correctly. I am not above using shock value to drive traffic to my site.

Let The Shopping Begin

As a continuation from my last riveting post A Clean Slate on cleaning out my closet, I decided to start out easy and purchase myself a bra.  How hard could that be?  After all, I was desperately in need of an underwire bra that didn’t provide unrequested piercing. As writers know though, the subject matter of many a blog post starts with those very words…How hard could that be.

This photo lends itself to so many questions. Photo by Pablo Heimplatz on Unsplash

How Big Are The Ladies?

The first problem I encountered was size ignorance.  I have an idea. However during these COVID times you cannot try on bras, so I needed to be somewhat informed as to my ladies’ girth and volume.  Off to Google for its wisdom on fitting a bra.

The first website instructed me to measure around my torso under the breast. then measure around the fullest part and add a certain number of inches.  Using these instructions, I ended up with a size I had never seen before.  Seriously, could I be a size P?  What?!  I tried holding the measuring tape tighter to get a better measure in case I was accidentally adding inches somewhere, but nope, size P it was.  Can it be possible that I’ve been purchasing the wrong size my entire life?! Worse yet, I’d never seen a size P.   Momentarily, I was caught off guard with self-doubt.  According to this measuring chart, I was an unheard of abnormality.   

Finally pulling myself together, I realized I was not the Amazon woman of the bra-wearing community and decided to try another website.  I suspect the first website was just someone’s idea of a prank because with the second site I finally obtained a legitimate measurement which appeared to fall within the first four letters of the alphabet.

Dignity, Dignity…Where Art Thou 

As an aside, it is not very easy to measure yourself. Referencing Google proved to be necessary so I was standing completely topless in the office of my house.  If indeed my laptop camera was spying on me, it got an eyeful.  My dogs were thoroughly confused. I’m pretty sure my crazy antics were a topic of discussion at the local dog park.  In fact, one of dogs ran terrified from the room during a particular moment of wrestling with the tape measure.

Victory

Not willing to invest a lot of money in my first undergarment foray, I headed to our local big box store. With a deep breath, I grabbed the first bra I saw with a pretty color and adequate support without appearing frumpy.  After a momentous struggle with my inner self, I accepted the fact that I was going to be wasting money in the quest to discover a style I liked.  Mind made up, I breezed through the cashier and expelled the breath I had been holding.  I did it! I finally bought something for myself.

On reflection, it’s ridiculous how much emotional effort spending money on myself seems to require.  Definitely, this personality defect is going to require some more self-reflection.  My psychology-minded brain would like to know what kind of therapy would address this issue.  Shopping exposure therapy? The patient is forced to go to the mall every day and buy something until they can whip out their debit card without breaking eye contact with the salesperson. Complete cure would resemble the patient dashing off to the dollar store for every seasonal holiday buying celebratory items that light up.

Victory! – Photo by Harry Cunningham on Unsplash

Pride Goes

Getting the bra home, I decided to try it on for size. Guess what! After all that hassle, I bought the wrong cup size.  I had an inkling to double check when I was faced with my breasts surfacing close to my chin and medieval corset-style cleavage.  I am still not sure how I managed that. In my anxious state, I must have focused on the torso measurement and blocked out everything else. 

But I will wear it because I can’t bear to waste money and the store doesn’t accept returns on bras so if I look a little perkier than usual, it’s not from my third cup of coffee.

My conclusion is that maybe a bra was reaching higher than anticipated. The adventure towards clothing improvement continues…tomorrow I go for a haircut.  Stay tuned.