Here's something I've never quite reconciled about myself: I'm actually quite a convincing little actress, but such a terrible liar. And yet I've always maintained there is a place in this life for cute and cuddly white lies. They're soft and poofy and slide on by like pretty little clouds along the horizon. Skies don't fear them because storms never come of them. When they're gone, they are gone. Poof! No harm, no foul.
And yet, while I make it a hard and fast rule never, ever to lie to my mate, I must admit that I do, on occasion, engage in a tad bit of hoodwinking when it comes to his coffee. We don't drink cups of coffee in the everyday american family kinda way. No, we greet our mornings with a blast of ice cold diet Redbull, or a more wholesome diet Coke. It's our evening espresso ritual of which I write. That last blast of the evening that keeps us rolling through the end of whatever episode. Espresso lifts me up and it brings me down - all in a single shot. Glorious!
But it lifts him into another stratosphere altogether. Up, up and away he goes like 10 little monkeys jumping on the bed. All. Night. Long.
So I ask myself, is it really such a crime to don my colorful genie pants, smile and whip up his favorite lungo a'la decaf? Luscious and indistinguishable from the hard stuff, he can never tell the difference. He bops around as though he's just mainlined the sun. So did I just lie to him, or have I merely saved us both from his boyish allnighter proclivities?
I should just serve him tea. Camomile tea will put him right to sleep and he'd never be the wiser. "Here sweet pea, some fabulous herbal tea to see you through the night". Same genie pants, less luminous smile (because, let's be honest - honesty isn't nearly as shiny as a well constructed fib...) and I will get some shut eye tonight. Literally and figuratively.
Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight liars everywhere.
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