When I was young, I was taught never to lie.
To reinforce this, my mother would leave an open bar of soap dangling from a rope in the corner of the living room. To visitors it probably seemed like some sort of eccentric air freshener.
To me and my siblings, however, it was an ever-present visual reminder not to fib or we would risk holding the dusty, dried up bar of Ivory in our mouths until we realized the error of our ways and the benefit of being truthful.
Long before Psychology 101 and studying Pavlov and his experiments with canines, this was my mother's Southern version of operant conditioning.
The way we saw things is important to understand because my siblings and I would seldom blatantly lie. It was just that our version of the truth would be in direct opposition with hers.
All attempts to sway her to our point of view were efforts in futility and we instinctively knew what was about to happen once we saw our mother's eyebrow arch.
Once her biologically built-in lie detector signaled anything less than the absolute truth, her go-go Gadget arms reached out at lightning speed to retrieve the soap and plug up the gaping mouth.
Always a flair for dramatics, she was quite fond of lectures (which were more like Shakespearian monologues) complete with pacing, wringing her hands and sometimes crying on cue.
My mother was an impressive five-foot five-inches on a good day - under the right conditions. Meaning, her hair was teased and backcombed and the humidity had not affected the White Rain Extra Super Hold hairspray holding it up.
Being held captive during one of her performances, while holding a block of soap and trying in vain not to swallow, was enough incentive to ensure your ongoing commitment to verbal accuracy from that point on.
Fast forward to today. My friend has been in a relationship now for more than four years.
Between them, there were years of happiness, holidays, struggles and disappointments.
This is a relationship - routine and remarkable in the same moment.
Like all things, a relationship is subject to the laws of time and its touch is evident even to someone who refuses to acknowledge the bends and twists it leaves in its wake.
My friend now complacently comes home every night and surrenders to a life of unhappiness simply because he refuses to be honest about his feelings.
He is not in love anymore, but is terrified to talk about it.
It is now way past the time for excuses and bargaining.
It is time for honesty and realizing that since he is no longer in love, he needs to love himself enough to simply let go.
We are all meant to fall in love, but rarely for a lifetime. Often it is only to learn a lesson.
A few broken hearts, although painful, are essential.
Unfortunately, most of us don't usually learn a lesson through laughter. So heartbreak tends to be a better teacher and those scars left behind are like a roadmap to finding love that endures through the cold touch of time.
For my friend, it is time for the truth.
Often honesty is tough to hear and even tougher to deliver, but I will never understand why people are so afraid of it.
Personally, I am more afraid of telling a lie.
crose@unews.com
