Pulling Your Own Leg

 ’Tis brave of me to say it but, like Erma Bombeck, I often wondered what I was doing in the pits. Surely but surely, I didn’t deserve to suffer the slings and arrows of such outrageous fortunes.

As I muddle through my exemplary life, I’m proud as punch that I’ve never drunk alcohol, smoked cigarettes or indulged in recreational drugs. Even more commendable––I’ve been celibate for decades. Scouts honor!

My only vice? I tell lies. 


At ease, at ease, it’s not what you think. But,  come now, don’t we all suffer occasional bouts of liarrhea? The truth lies within the lie of the beholder––or something like that.


Take two of my heroes, Martha Stewart and Bill Clinton. Were they punished because of their initial infractions? No way, cliché. They fell from grace because they denied being naughty.


I’m a different kind of liar––I lie only to myself. Mostly.


Granted, as I grow older, my nose grows longer, but I’m actually a noble warrior, I tell ya. Among other fake virtues, I battle boredom. When a conversation turns tedious, my mind shifts gears. Suddenly, I start spitting out what I fancy to be a fascinating fictional scenario. 


If indeed I’m with people, the poor saps probably think I’m desperate to impress them, so they (pityingly) allow me to babble on. 


They don’t get it. It is I, not they, who desperately needs my embellished scenarios. I  create scenarios primarily to entertain myself.


Fake fits me because modern realities frighten me. My psyche thrives on make believe. My brain demands magic. 


Actually, my attraction to acting courses could be the key to my madness. When I was a kid, the late comic actor George Burns inspired me when he quipped “Acting is about honesty. If you can fake that, you’ve got it made.”


So, fake it ’til you make it? What a perfect time for artificial intelligence and photoshopping. Fakism has descended upon us like a cyclone and continues to evolve. Ah, but I submit that fakism can be a good thing. Roll with it.


From childhood, I’ve always craved the escapism that movies provide. Fiction functioned as my saving grace. Ultimately, It delivered me into a vital self-deception.


As a small fry, I was bullied by everyone. Then, when I was about 11, I saw the movie The King and I. The song “I Whistle a Happy Tune” became my personal anthem. I stopped cringing and started whistling. 


My favorite part of the lyrics of the song is how a lie transforms into a wondrous Truth:


The result of this deception

Is very strange to tell

For when I fool the people I fear

I fool myself as well.


By George, it rescued Eskew! I mean, by Santos, it worked! Learning to lie to myself  led to an honest fearlessness. 


I ended the agony of proving every statement I made. I was sick of the rude nonverbal reactions of certain “friends” when I related the honest truth of my accomplishments.These jealous jerks simply could not lie like a real pal does by spewing out a “Congrats, Steve! I’m so happy for you.”


Instead, they’d cast me a fishy look that silently screamed that I was lying about my accomplishment. Some rolled their odious eyeballs in doubt––or worse––sometimes they’d twist their lips into a sort of frozen superiority smirk. How could someone as dumb as I accomplish anything?


Well!


I’ve leaned to stop feeling frustrated by these  frenemies. To get their goat, I’ve trained my brain to honestly and fully feel joy by their mute putdowns.


Henceforth, when I’ve detected doubt in their eyes, a smirk on their lips or no comment at all when a “Good for you, man” is appropriate, I truly feel exhilaration.


Lie, lie, lie to yourself until it becomes the truth––that’s my maxim. Pull your own leg.


This reverse technique also works with tasks I hate. If I know I’m stuck with it, I come to adore it. I grew to truly love cleaning the toilet bowl and washing walls––mmmmmmmm!––such fun.


The key to lasting happiness lies in learning to embrace harsh realities with glee: Honey, we’re being audited. (Oh, goodie-goodie! Bring out the hats and horns! Let’s party hearty).


Feed a line of malarkehyky to yourself that would choke a shark. (Exception: no faking orgasms during sex––unless you’re all by yourself).


I always whistle a happy tune when I’m in the pits. I treat my mind to a sweet bowl of cherries even when someone cuts me off in traffic. 


Yes, I aways exhibit syrupy delight with the impolite driver. I never extend my middle finger. I give out a sweet, sincere wave, using all of my  fingers. I honestly feel chills and thrills as I pucker up to whistle.


But somewhere in the deepest recesses of my  mind, I must confess that a wicked whisper utters Happy Karma, Bub! Happy Karma!

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