When I was sixteen, my friend Miriam texted me to say that she’d failed our English exam and I replied, “OMG Miriam failed English.” I didn’t have time to explain—before she wrote back, “I know I did?”—that I was actually talking about a different Miriam, one she didn’t know, who went to a different school.
Last year, when I drank one singular glass of wine at the pub and then Joe interrupted my conversation to ask me a question, I held up a finger and said, “In a minute, papa.” But I actually didn’t say that, I didn’t say that at all.
A few weeks after my wedding, when Sarah politely asked why I got married in Sicily, I explained, “Because I can’t stand boring British weddings with their halls and marquees.” My comments only applied to other weddings I’ve been to, not Sarah’s.
One Christmas, when my boss bought some Choco Leibniz cookies to share with everyone in the office, I shouted, “OOH, CHOCO LYE-BENS!” That’s because that’s the way I’ve always pronounced it in my head.
The first and only time Lucy and Anya invited me to their place, I stated, ostentatiously, “Dating apps never work! When’s the last time you went to a Tinder wedding?” Let the record show that my husband had told me Lucy and Anya met at a bar.
In fact, Lucy and Anya, I said that thing about apps—which I actually don’t even believe—because I was trying to compliment you, to reinforce the idea that you’re better than other couples. Please invite us again—I’ll bring the Choco Leibniz.
When my high-school friend Katherine told me that she wanted to suffer because that’s how you make great art, I replied that she sounded crass and out of touch. But, a week later, after Peter and I made out at the prom, I tried to impress him by repeating Katherine’s sentiment. When Peter later announced that we shouldn’t see each other anymore—citing what I had said about suffering and art—I didn’t utter a word in my defense. But it’s been fifteen years, and you’ve got to believe me, Peter. I didn’t think that. I didn’t think that at all!
When Cassie, Lauren, Isaac, and I recently played a game called Who at the Table Would You Want at Your Bedside as You Lie Dying?, I said, “Not Isaac!” forgetting that he had spent days at the bedside of a dying loved one mere months before. That’s because I was possessed by an ancient, malevolent spirit who I’m also really mad at.
When I was fourteen, my boyfriend Luke texted to say, “I love you :]” and, feeling the first thrill of my burgeoning feminine power, I replied, “Well, I don’t love you.” Seconds later, I claimed that my cousins had stolen my phone and sent the message. That was a lie.
When Rob and I stumbled out of the pub a week before he broke up with me, and I, sensing the relationship rot in the air, declared, “One day your grandchildren won’t even believe that you went out with me.” That was arrogant and childish. I stand by every word.
Zach, when we were discussing which baby names you liked shortly after the birth of your son, you mentioned loving the name Jacob but hating the nickname Jake. Overcome with the joy of a shared experience, I said that I loved the name Isaac but hated the nickname Zack. In my defense, I really did mean Zack with a “K,” which we can all agree is different from Zach with an “H.”
When Beth said, “You always say what you’re thinking!,” and I, deeply touched, replied, “That’s very kind, thank you,” I didn’t realize that she wasn’t actually giving me a compliment. ♦
