I was taught to lie at a young age. 

I also had my butt busted at a young age for lying about the least little thing.

It did not occur to me until this morning, at 38 and a half years old, that I was brought up a liar. 

I was frying bacon and eggs for a sandwich. I thought, “Oh, goody! We can use our new Christmas plates since this is just a sandwich and we don’t need big plates.” I then went over to the table and felt their heft as I lifted them. Maybe this wasn’t such a bright idea. I broke my new turtle glass the other day, and I didn’t want to risk these so early in their life. What if I couldn’t replace them? I mean, they’re just Wal-Mart plates but I really like them. No, not the Pioneer Woman ones they’re pushing. These are the Twelve Days of Christmas. I could just see me washing them and their soapy slickness slipping through my grasp and thirteen million pieces as it went everywhere.

So I set the plate back down and thought, “Lets not and say we did.” Which. Is. A. LIE. 

But that’s a passable lie, since it was always used in jest. Like when I wanted to do something that nobody else did, like go to the store, or ride horses all day, or eat an entire chocolate cake. It usually made me sigh theatrically and know the battle was lost so I would flounce off, pigtails swinging.

So we didn’t use the Christmas dishes this morning, but I’m gonna say we did.