Liar, liar; in those pants you’re on fire

Most people when pressed seem to agree that lies are bad and it’s not really ever acceptable to tell them. I’m very much on the fence about this, however, believing there are degrees of lie, probably based on motivation. To me, there are certainly occasions when the truth, although occupying the moral high ground, is neither useful nor desirable.

Like there is a big difference between telling someone in a pre-purchase changing room the truth that their dress is most unflattering and telling someone already at a gala evening that their dress is most unflattering. Once there’s nothing they can do about it, isn’t it better for them to believe they look fab?

I ponder this for I have a liar in my house. Apart from me. It’s the mirror in which I do my make up.

It was not a tactic, not done on purpose, it’s just a square of mirror on the only available wall. A happy accident because in this mirror I look great. OK, at this age looking great just means not looking your age. It’s just a face mirror so looking fat isn’t a factor. And in this mirror I don’t think I look my age. Which sets you up for the day. I can lash on the slap and tell myself I look some unspecified kind of younger and spend the day believing that and behaving accordingly.

The only problem is that not all mirrors are as kind. Some are frankly downright cruel. Really, whoever thought fluorescent lighting above a mirror was a good idea? I’d be happy with candelight. But even under fluorescence some people gaze upon themselves. Not me. I studiously avert my eyes which might be construed as lack of vanity. Pff, not a chance.

It’s extreme vanity with a dash of delusion. There is no way that pink, shiny-faced puffy-eyed truth would set me free.