I just got really mad at my boyfriend because I told him I was sad, and he said, “Don’t be.” He doesn’t get it. I ate watermelon today, and I didn’t take the seeds out, so I swallowed them. As he did. Every summer before this one. But he won’t do it in any summer after. So I am allowed to be sad. What does being allowed to be sad even mean? I wonder who came up with this whole needing-permission-to-cry requirement, because it doesn’t belong to me.
Sadness is part of my life. I want to take pride in it. I was raised by someone who never cried. I hated it when we watched Titanic and he didn’t cry. I hated that when he died, he didn’t cry. Doesn’t he know he’s never going to eat watermelon seeds again? So I guess I like crying because it takes me away from him. And because the day after I cry, I feel so light. The world makes sense again.
I don’t really like crying in summer, though. Anything that puts me at risk of dehydration is bad for me in summer. It’s too hot in this city. I hate crying in the summer because everyone’s happy in summer. I fear missing out on all the fun everyone is having splashing water in swimming pools and playing UNO on the beach. Growing up is realizing summer is overrated. So are New Year’s Eve, weddings, the monarchy, and Henry Cavill. I get it, though, because the colors are brighter in the summer, you can eat a lot of ice cream, and let’s recognize that Henry Cavill is so handsome I could die.
Yesterday, the hotel receptionist asked me if I was having a nice vacation. I wanted to say no. I don’t want to be in a place where they refill my cocktail every time it gets low with a cute little flamingo straw in it. I want to be at my grandpa’s apartment, drinking water from the same crystal bottle I’ve been drinking from my whole life and still hate because, for some weird reason, it tastes like garlic.
Instead of telling her I wasn’t having a good time at this five-star hotel, where everyone keeps handing me cocktails and flirting with me. Maybe that last part isn’t true. It probably is, though.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t having an amazing vacation. That I didn’t care how many fucking stars her hotel had. I just wanted one thing. One person. One smell.
I didn’t cry. At a very young age, I realized people don’t actually want the truth. No waitress has ever asked, “How was the food?” expecting an honest answer, even if it’s constructive criticism because the sauce is hiding the flavor of the meat. In fact, I’m pretty sure there’s a terrible chef somewhere in Sicily being complimented right now by a customer who absolutely hated his tortellini al pesto.
They don’t care about you or the truth. They are just doing their job. Playing a character, asking scripted questions. They don’t care about your dead grandpa. They don’t care that he used to eat half a watermelon every day, seeds included. Then my grandma would yell at him, and he’d pull out his foolproof argument: “Paquita, it’s mostly water”.
She doesn’t care about my sad summer for my dead grandpa. Maybe once she’s off work, she might care a little. But right now, she only cares about clean sheets and whether my room gets cleaned. So I just smiled and lied. Sometimes I think civilization only works because we lie. That the entire world we’ve built rests on one giant lie.
I used to hate lies. My father was an alcoholic inside the house. The moment we walked out the front door, he became a successful pilot. How could anyone know that the charming man with the soft voice at the coffee shop said goodnight to his daughter by punching her wardrobe door until it caved in? Back then, lying meant danger. Lies were dangerous to me.
I made peace with lies three and a half months ago. I was in a situation. I was also in danger. I’d borrowed my sister’s favorite hairpin and broken it. She’d made me promise I wouldn’t borrow any more of her hairpins because I always either lose them or break them. The one before this is probably still under the bed of a guy I slept with in Lisbon.
So I was about to get yelled at when these words came out of nowhere: “It’s at Irene’s house. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.” And tomorrow I bought the exact same hairpin. It was the first time a lie had ever saved me. The same concept. Opposite outcome. I am not going to enter any morality arena. But sometimes we lie to survive. And then we survive. And we move on with our lives. The truth is heavy and pointless sometimes.
So if the receptionist asks me what I think about summer, I might say it’s the best season because I get to be in the water and show my nipples. If you ask me, though, well, I might tell you I hate summer because it’s incompatible with having a human body, I don’t want to drink any more water just to stay alive, and my grandpa is dead. Or maybe I won’t. I’m still trying to figure out whether the choice between truth and lies depends on the person you’re talking to, the subject, or the moment. It’s not always good to tell the truth, and it’s not always good to lie. I guess we have to carefully pick the time and the person with whom to break the “always” in either of those sentences.
I don’t care about that, though. Because I am at the swimming pool and I’ve just ordered a watermelon. Because for the rest of my life, I’ll be eating someone else’s watermelon seeds. Or maybe I never ate the seeds. Maybe I never went to the hotel or talked to the receptionist. Maybe all of it was there to build narrative tension. And now it’s making a point. Truth or lie. As a writer, I am lying all the time in order to tell my truth. It’s up to you now to be a believer or a cynic. Take it or leave it.
I used to be deeply terrified of lies. Until I went to a publishing event where two women talked about the benefits of lying. I found it fascinating.
Now I’m genuinely curious: how do you feel about this? Do you think lying is necessary, even good, in some situations? I’d love to know what you think. Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments.
If this made you think, laugh, or love watermelon even more, it’d mean a lot to me if you shared it <3
Other pieces you might enjoy:
I was told I was meant for great things
·
May 6
Like most kids, I wanted a dog. So I asked for one every christmas, hoping Santa would surprise me with the cutest little puppy. And like most kids, I was very disappointed when every year Santa just gave me a toy puppy instead of a real one. But unlike most kids, who eventually accept defeat, I decided to make it happen.
the fear of having what you’ve been longing for because now you can lose it
·
Jun 24
I’ve always known there was something off with my uterus. That’s why it didn’t surprise me when I woke up with such unbearable vaginal pain that I couldn’t even walk. And that’s why it only surprised me a little when the doctor at the hospital said I had to be careful because one of my fallopian tubes could explode. In that moment, my mind decided I was…
That’s all. Thank you for reading bby, it really means a lot to me <3
No posts
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.