A White Lie to Myself

I’ve always prided myself on being honest, both with others and more importantly, with myself. But there’s one little fib I’ve been telling for years, since before my marriage even began. It started small; just a little embellishment here, an omission there. When we first met, I told him that I’d only ever had three boyfriends in high school, but the truth is that number was twice as many, still nothing too excessive, mind you, just enough to make me feel like a bit of a mystery. The lie grew bigger with time. Now it’s become this little game I play with myself: every few months, I invent a new detail from my past and believe it. Today, for instance, when we were having a lazy Sunday afternoon at home, I imagined that I’d actually dated someone in college who was six years older than me, a wild fantasy back then but now I picture him as this suave, charming guy with a secret life. Silly, right? But it’s like my own personal therapy session, letting these small lies live inside my head for a while before they fade away. I know deep down that the real me is good enough, and there’s no need to fabricate anything, but sometimes, just sometimes, it feels nice to pretend.