As we get older, I’m told we acquire greater self-awareness (well, some of us do—certain presidential contenders fly in the face of this truism). But I digress.
I hate to admit it, but I’ve become aware of some lies I’ve been telling myself at this age. To wit (in no particular order):
I don’t have to write it down; I’ll remember it.
How deluded am I? Without committing it to paper, that middle-of-the-night inspiration for a blog post won’t be there in the morning. If that online funds transfer isn’t entered into my check register when I actually make the transfer, I’ll forget and likely end up bouncing a check. And if I don’t make a list of the six items I need at the grocery store, I’ll invariably come home with only five.
I’ll go for a walk at lunchtime.
I justify dawdling over a cup of tea and the morning news—instead of getting my ass out the door for a walk—by telling myself I’ll walk at lunchtime instead. But then lunchtime comes and I’m hungry, I get caught up in work, or I simply forget. The road to hell (and cardio unfitness) is paved with good intentions.
I’ll fit into those jeans again.
Oh, please. I’ve been hanging on to them for nine years now. I am not a size four anymore, and they don’t even have Spandex in them. Besides, medical science says it’s good to carry a few extra pounds as we get older. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Next spring, I’ll keep up with the weeding.
Gung ho at the start of every growing season, I tell myself that I’ll get out there and pull weeds in the garden at least once a week. Who am I kidding? I honestly have absolutely no interest in gardening, I have no time for it during the workweek, and kneeling in dirt with spiders, worms and other crawly things is not how I want to spend my free time on weekends. Next year, I’ll pay someone else to do it.
This skin care product is really going to make me look younger.
Hope springs eternal. But by now, I—and my credit card—should know that no over-the-counter beauty product is going to lift my jowls or get rid of my crow’s feet. Short of a facelift, Botox or laser resurfacing, at best I’ll get well-moisturized skin that, in the right light and at the right angle, has its fine lines and wrinkles “minimized.” Sigh.
I’m not going to have wine tonight.
I don’t need the empty calories. And one glass invariably leads to two. But there’s something so comforting about the ritual, especially at the end of a crazy-busy workday. So while I start the day with the best of intentions (there’s that word again) to forego wine, when I come downstairs from the home office and Hubs asks me if I want a glass of chardonnay, sometimes I just can’t say no. I’m sure he wishes I were that easy when he offers other ways to de-stress.
It won’t hurt to wear high heels just one more time.
Yeah, tell that to my aching back, sore footpads and cramping calves. But vanity still prevails over common sense every now and then. What can I say?
If I leave my smartphone in the kitchen, I won’t feel compelled to look at it when I wake up in the middle of the night.
Wrong. I haul myself out of bed, retrieve it and spend way too long reading emails and visiting social media sites in the wee hours. I should probably ask Hubs to hide my phone at night. Or just exhibit some self-discipline and resist its siren call.
I’m sure there are numerous other ways in which I delude myself, but that’s all I can come up with for now. What about you? Are there lies you tell yourself—that you’re willing to fess up to here?
While you think about it, here’s this week’s Boomer Haiku:
Lies we tell ourselves
give the illusion we’re in
control. Let’s get real.