I’ve lied about being a liar.

Recently I was telling someone I didn’t know all that well that I was a shocking liar; that I both can’t lie convincingly and that, most of the time, it’s physically impossible for me to lie, no matter how trivial the untruth. It’s like lies curdle in my mouth. And, even if I do get thee false statement out, I usually vomit up a fumbled clarification.

In the context of dating this is a real plus, because if you’re with someone who can’t stomach lying, honesty and trust are a given. You can safely assume they’re not living a double life as a 443-year-old witch in the freckly skin suit of a 27-year-old and their orgasms are real. As far as failings and flaws go, being a shithouse liar is a positive.

But, now that I think about it, I told a blatant lie less than an hour after I professed my great deceptive shortcomings. I had made multiple comments about how undercooked the rustic cut chippies were and, from memory, I may have described them as disappointing. But when the waiter asked how our meal was, I put on my best people-pleasing grin and lied through my teeth to tell him it was “great, thank you so much”.

So not only did I lie, I also lied about a being a liar, which is a more potent kind of lie. Like, the lie about the dinner was a shandy, but the lie about lying was a Smirnoff Double Black.

And now that I realise it, I actually lie fairly often. I tell people “no no, you’re right” when they apologise out of forced politeness for standing in my way in the supermarket aisle. A blatant lie; they’re wrong. You can take up the whole aisle and block people’s paths just because you can’t decide if you want apricot chicken or black bean stirfry sauce from a jar that night. People have places to go, ya drongo!

I think the more accurate statement about my lying behaviours is that I usually avoid lying because I can’t handle the overthinking spirals it sends me down. I either tell the truth, change the subject or say something that’s not technically a lie, but not the whole truth.

Like when someone asks how you’re doing of a morning and you’re so tired your eyes feel like your inner eyelids are made from sandpaper, you’re feeling like you’ve wasted your youth and you were secretly hoping someone shot you in the thigh on the way in so you wouldn’t have to go into work and pretend to be a functioning human being for a good week, saying “good thanks” is a downright lie. And you don’t want to say this to the person, because they’re not a trained psychologist and, let’s face it, they probably have their own stuff going on – they don’t have the time nor the abilities to fix my sitch. So I like to go with a “oh yeah, I’m here”, which is, in essence, very true. I am at the place my body is physically located. That’s correct. I’ve not lied to the person, but I’ve given them a response and, often, it elicits a knowing nod where you both can acknowledge your mundane, depressing existences without having to articulate it in a public setting. It’s nice. It does the job. it usually leads to lasting, no bullshit friendships.

It means that I’m not obsessing about the lie I told, unlike right now. You see, the other day I had a phone call from a wrong number – some girl was looking for a Rachel. “Yeah, sorry, you must have the wrong number, I don’t know a Rachel,” I told her. I felt like I had to say something other than “WRONGO” and I couldn’t very well say “nah, I’m a Dannielle ya silly sausage” because I answered the phone with a “hello, this is Dannielle” To say my name again would have been a bit of overkill. So the “I don’t know a Rachel” came out. And that was a huge lie. I know many Rachels. But I hung up before I could explain myself. And now I’m going through a list of all the Rachels I know, mentally apologising for not acknowledging their existence to a polite stranger in a 20-second phone conversation.

I’m sorry to the Rachel who was a big sister figure to me growing up and became a dear, kindred spirit as an adult.

I’m sorry to the British Rachel I used to work with in Sydney who made me a tray of Mars Bar slice one my last day and called it “fridge cake”.

I’m sorry to the sassy Rachel I used to complain about the shake machine with when I was working at Hungry Jacks.

I’m sorry to the loud, crass Rachel who used to sit up the back of my school bus and shout at the driver to turn up the air con and the radio on our behalf.

I’m sorry to the Rachel who I spent hours with arranging flowers before a wedding and getting totally crunkmaggot with as said wedding.

I’m sorry to the Rachel whose wellness Instagram account I follow because she went to my college.

I’m so fucking sorry.