The lie and how I told it.

I have a problem.

I lie. To strangers. A lot.

When the person next to me on an airplane starts asking about my life, I lie.

Not deceptive un-truths, mind you. Or the jocose lies and polite dissembling you are probably accustomed from me.

Just simple half-truths. White lies that benefit nobody and expire at the end of a taxi cab ride.

I lie about where I am from. What I do. Anything.

It is a type of lie that finds no easy categorization in the Augustinian taxonomy. For what interest does it serve?

I take no pleasure in the act of lying. Nor is it some strategic charade.

Nietzsche wrote that we tell the truth only because lying is too difficult. It requires invention and a good memory. And we fear detection.

Maybe that is why it seems like such a bad habit. One I feel I should break.

But the more I profess about this problem to strangers, the more they confess to suffering from the same condition.