The gift of the gab

My tongue gets me in trouble. Not in any kind of kinky, Spin-The-Bottle sense but, rather, due to the propensity for words to leap out of my mouth and wreak havoc on unsuspecting listeners.

If a waitress breezily asks me how my meal was, I am inclined to tell her in detail if the cous cous is too dry and to suggest an alternative poultry supplier. If you offer to lend me your copy of the latest Dan Brown, I will thank you for your kind intention but will explain to you exactly why I have trouble suppressing my gag reflex when I hear his name.  If you start a sentence with "I'm not racist but...", I will not just laugh politely and change the topic.

It was the “balloon boy” incident that triggered me to ruminate on the issue of honesty. Emerging from his attic, little Falcon Heene explained the suspiciously implausible story of how he had hidden in a cardboard box while helicopters chased a tin-foil hot air balloon in a fruitless rescue mission. He did relatively well with the spin-doctor coaching given to him by his parents, until he uttered those fateful words - “We did this for the show”. Indeed.

I rejoiced in his childish honesty. Regardless of whether his UFO tracking, flannelette-clothed parents had intended for their subterfuge to be discovered, I was reminded of how the truth catches up with us and thought that it would save a lot of time and heartache if we just “tell it like it is”.

I’ll admit that there are times I wish there was a filter between my brain and my mouth. An interviewer at a prestigious law firm does not need to hear a comprehensive account of a documentary about a day in the life of a dung beetle. Jokes about syphilis, no matter how hilarious, do not always invoke raucous laughter during group discussion at Bible study. I should wait before offering weight loss tips the next time a friend shows me her stomach because she just might be pointing at a mosquito bite rather than referring to the less-than-washboard quality of her midsection. I suspect my friends are sometimes tempted to ask if Tourette Syndrome runs in my family.

However, despite those cringe-inducing moments, I can’t help but be honest because I appreciate the same from others. I expect friends to tell me when I am acting like an angst-ridden, whinging emo who should take a break from the Nick Cave marathon. I would be distressed if you did not tell me that I had bruised your feelings. I am grateful for the many times I emerged triumphantly from fitting rooms, only to hear my sister say encouraging words such as “disgusting” and “I can’t believe anybody would buy such a hideous thing”.

I am not advocating meanness disguised as honesty. What I think we should celebrate is the people in our lives who love us enough to tell us truths that are difficult to hear.  Left to my own whims, I will inevitably turn into a “worst nightmare” version of myself. I can only grow if people challenge me, expose my assumptions and cause me to look at my faults. Truthful words do not always have to be negative or harsh. You know I mean it if I tell you I love you and cannot fathom life without you. You can be assured that I am not exaggerating if I say you look stunning and make the best basil pesto I have ever tasted.

We should never again say “Let's catch up sometime” unless we are taking out our diaries as we say it.  We should not tolerate meaningless platitudes but, instead, encourage and rebuke each other. We should admit when we’re wrong; we should confess that we love Mariah Carey, that we don’t care about what happened on Celebrity Masterchef last night and that we really would like to know what your answer is when we ask “How are you?"