Pants on Fire

I have a confession.

I lie “up.”

Generally when folks lie about their age they lie “down” and say they’re younger than they really are. I lie “up.” Last night I was 46. (Tomorrow I might try 49 on for size just to see if I can get away with it.) A friend from my actress-in-New-York days recently reminded me that I’ve been doing this since I was about 21. He said he once heard me tell someone that I was 30. (I was 22 at the time.) Somehow this has gotten to be a fun little habit. (Kind of like assuming a different identity while on a cruise or long airplane ride. I was a lottery winner from Texas once.) I don’t exactly know why I do it. Perhaps because it’s fun to see how people react. Perhaps because I'm a little scared that if I tell folks my real age they may say something along the lines of, "You know, 40 is the new 30." (Yeah, until you are actually 40 and it feels like 50.) I always ‘fess up if caught, which almost never happens. It usually goes something like this:

Them: So, how old are you?

Me: 46

Them: Really?!?! 46?

Me: Yup. 4. 6.

Them: 46? You look gooood for 46. You can’t be 46.

Me: O.k., I’m not.

Them: You’re not?

Me: You just said I’m not.

You: Wow. I hope I look that good when I’m 46.

Me too.