You Made Your Bed, Now Lie In It

I have grown fond of the new show on Fox, Lie to Me. It's about a team of professionals who are trained in the art of lie detection, and put their services to use for crime- and problem-solving capers, located right in the heart of America's lies—Washington, D.C.

If you haven't seen it, make a point to catch it. I think you'll like it.

And, if not, lie to me. I'll be fine with that.

It got me thinking, though.

How often do we tell lies? As a good person with a strong Catholic upbringing, I'd love to tell you that I'm always honest.

But that would be lie #1.

And, I'd love to tell you that no one lies to me.

But that would make #2.

See how quickly they add up?

The show's premise focuses mostly on the involuntary, subconscious "micro-expressions" that our bodies make when we tell a lie. Grimaces, flinches, twitches, nervous gestures, body language and even, swallowing. The plotlines carry through nicely, and there is usually at least one twist that reveals whodunnit. I like that kind of program—especially since most of the violence/blood isn't shown too much.

It got me thinking, though.

How communicative are our faces in our daily lives? Meaning, when we're not trying to hide some major, disturbing event. Just the everyday conversations with friends, family and co-workers. I plan to be more conscious of my facial language, I tell you.

More to the point, how often do we lie? And why?

I'm guessing that we all lie pretty regularly, whether we know it or not. Most of the time, I think, we believe it is for their own good: "those pants don't make you look fat, honey," "sure, we can afford it," "you didn't make a fool of yourself, I promise," "your kids are charming," "he misses you, too," or the worst in my book, "I love you, too."

Some of the time, we're clearly lying, and it is a thinly veiled guise of what we're really thinking: "you deserve the promotion more than I did," "we can reschedule, it is no problem," "I'm proud of you for losing the weight I can't seem to drop," or, the most famous, "it's not you, it's me."

I'm pretty sure everyone knows those lies on a first-name basis.

And then there are the lies that simply avoid the truth, or sins of omission, as the Catholics would say. Those lies are the harder ones to read—they are the ones that are told between the lines, behind the real statement, below the surface.

They are the ones we're NOT saying, but really should. The truths that should be confessed, the admissions that ought to be made: "I'm married," "she's my ex-girlfriend and I'm not really over her," "I am threatened by your success," or, the most painful, "I'm disappointed in you."

Finally, there are the lies that we tell ourselves. Sometimes out loud, and sometimes in the quiet of our darkened rooms: "I don't usually do this kind of thing," "it is only a fling, I don't have real feelings at stake," "I'll be able to afford to retire eventually, I don't need to save now," "I don't mind being the grunt at work, it shows my dedication," "I probably deserved that," "I will be ready for love when I am a smaller size," or, the most treacherous, "It's okay that he/she is unsure of how they feel about me, we're just having fun."

I have had several interesting experiences lately where I realized the cold hard truth about lying, unfortunately (or is it?), from the receiving end of the game.

Lying. We all do it. Sometimes we get caught, and sometimes we don't. Sometimes, the times where we DON'T get caught are the most deadly.

Because then we go on lying to ourselves.