Enter the Wolf

by Carrie Pålsson

We've all heard the story of the boy who cried wolf. My grandmother was especially fond of telling it right before bedtime on the Friday nights I spent at her house, her eyes wide with an almost fanatic need to instill honesty in me, her meekest grandchild.

I wasn't sure what a wolf was, but I knew it must be a very bad thing indeed. I imagined some evil anti-Disney Goofy with spittle dripping off his fangs. I'd wake in middle of the night, convinced the wolf was in the room with me. I'd look over and see my grandmother sleeping and convince myself that she was gone and the wolf was lying right next to me in a silky pink night gown. Terror would shiver down my spine until the faint morning sun revealed nothing more threatening than a sunken mouth awaiting the dentures that soaked on her bedside table.

I processed her lesson well. Do not tell lies. Lies are bad. No one will believe you if you tell lies. Lies will lead to death by genetically altered wolf-man.

Funny thing is, I turned into a liar.

Oh, I don't tell big lies. I don't claim to be someone I'm not. I don't con people out of money or hide tawdry affairs. But I do lie.

It all started in junior high when I was a miserable be-pimpled fat girl, the butt of every class clown's jokes. I hated school. I wanted to love it because I loved learning and proving myself academically, but kids are cruel and my classmates didn't care that I could beat them all when our science teacher set up his Jeopardy review game. I'd do anything to get out of going to school, though it usually took only a simple lie. The boy cried wolf so many times that no one believed him. He simply had no finesse. Me? I had finesee coming out my pores. I presented an honest face and never told big lies, thus no one had reason to question my many mysterious illnesses.

I quickly figured out that if I spent a good portion of the morning lying on the sofa with my head next to the fireplace my mom would think I was feverish and let me stay home.

Little lies.

I don't know if she ever figured it out.

As a champion procrastinator yet excellent student, I slowly tested the waters of lying to teachers. I always did my work and did it well, so teachers would find themselves puzzled when they couldn't find the big assignment I was supposed to have turned in. My eyes would water and my lips would tremble as I promised that I'd handed it in the day it was due. I'd offer to do it again and the confused teacher would usually agree to my solution, apologizing for losing my paper in the first place. I'd gain a few extra days to get the work done and the teacher would never be any the wiser. Of course, this only worked once per teacher. The key, I knew, was continued honesty and integrity even as I told bald faced lies.

I was a sly one, and I'm not proud of it.

In those years I perfected the art of lying with a totally straight face, a trait that can cause me no end of trouble when I am with people who don't know me well. Just last weekend we met some friends and were making dinner plans.

We debated for a good half-hour, no one wanting to put forth a strong opinion that would make them responsible should the meal be bad. Finally a decision was reached. Our friends thought Olive Garden would be a sure winner. I put on a pouty face and maintained that I was really looking forward to Dirty Ernie's, a bbq place with an unfortunate name. I sounded so sincere that our friends panicked and assured me we could try it, even though their doubts were plain as day. My husband didn't even bat an eye. He called me a liar straight to my face. I owned up and felt bad for making our friends believe I would ever frequent a place called Dirty Ernie's. I don't know why I said it. I guess I'm just a brat.

The lies, they just slip off my tongue.

These days I cry wolf constantly. My husband would never know if the wolf slipped right in the door. I've lied so often that it is difficult for us to have a serious conversation. When we first moved to the Washington, DC area we thought we'd try to live car free. Three days of walking in the humid August heat quickly changed my mind about that little plan.

"Honey, we're buying a car," I said after my feet had walked one too many miles.

He just laughed.

It took me a full hour to make him understand that I was serious.

I guess all my sarcastic lies have a price.

I just know that one of these days I'm going to be in serious trouble and he'll just laugh at my plight. He might believe the chilling truth about cancer, but what if my health problem is more obscure? What if I am diagnosed with amyloidosis? He'll require a signed medical statement from at least two doctors before he'll believe me.

On the upside, if I ever want to have an affair I won't have to hide it. I'll be able to tell him all about my lover and he'll laugh at every word.