the dirty laundry show

I lied at my women’s networking lunch on Tuesday, and now I wish I hadn’t. Everything was going so great at first. My witty repartee was en fuego. All five ladies were just full of delightful stories.

Surprisingly, I felt more social than I’d anticipated on a 6-degree winter’s day. That’s always a nice surprise when you’d really rather be home percolating in your week-old sweats and unwashed hair.

This was my first encounter with Melissa. I hadn’t seen her before at these gatherings, but I liked her right away. A tad on the manic side (aren’t we all), she asked great questions and readily volunteered personal information in a way that endeared her to me instantly.

Until, that is, she suggested, completely out of the blue, that we go around and share the current book we’re each reading. WTF Melissa.

Here I’d been entertaining visions of shared family vacations in warm, tropical destinations. Sun-soaked August get-togethers along the Missoula Riviera – that magical stretch of downtown river where the shiny out-of-towners encounter our rare breed of hardy homeless – engaging in the age-old pastime of watching the paddle boarders tip over on Brennan’s Wave.

No more. Every hope of companionship dashed to ribbons in one fell swoop. All because you had to ask the single question I hate most in the world.

Everyone knows that books are a window into the soul and intelligence of a person. And by that measure, I’m either a complete idiot or a total bigot, depending on who’s listening.

The truth? I don’t read. Maaaybe five books a year. Maybe. But if I’ve got a free block of time, I’m schooling my kids, supervising activities, spending time with my husband or friends, writing for work, blogging for fun, prepping meals, sweating my ass off in hot yoga, or watching YouTube content on religious philosophy.

When pressed, the most recent book I perused was an apologetics guide for grounding your kids in the Christian faith. What a fun topic to bring up in mixed company!

Looking around, I quickly determined that I couldn’t say any of those things. I barely knew these women. Sure, eventually they’d likely discover me for the philistine fraud that I was.

But not today. Not right now, on this frigid afternoon when I’d already given an in-depth commentary on my thoughts regarding the injustice of overdressed salads. And especially not after Gail went first, expounding on a beautifully composed tome about the complicated ties between the rolling Wyoming hills and the horse ranchers that traverse them.

Good golly, Gail.

Plus, there’s that whole intimation about writers who read being better writers… which I fully believe, by the way. Of course it makes sense that reading other works improves your own approach. But is it possible to count Pinterest recipes and online articles about chicken care?

(Awkward silence)

Look, I know HOW to read… in fact, the last book I consumed in its entirety was the third in a sci-fi trilogy. These were huuuge books. Tremendous books. Books that only the smartest people can read. So I’m not a complete waste of space as a writer and a human.

And I’m not trying to argue the point that reading is a valuable and beneficial habit. I probably should read more often and look forward to one day making it part of my daily routine. Or maybe I’ll just cook and eat more…

Either way, regardless of the decisions that Future Me makes, I suppose my point is that I want to live more honestly right now. (And you should, too, because I don’t want to do it alone).

I want to stop filtering the real, raw me for other people simply because I’m afraid of what they’ll decide about me. Whatever their final verdicts, may I at least be able to say they are judging the actual and true person, rather than some fabricated made-for-TV version.

There’s also the outside chance that openly exposing my fraudulent ways could lead to more vibrant conversation and robust dialogue about how we choose to spend (or waste) our time. What if one REAL person, flaws and all, is capable of inspiring others to let their own insecure freak flags fly?

Or else perhaps everyone I know will decide I’m too ignorant and awful to abide. And in that case, who needs ‘em? After all, it’s not like I need a resource for book recommendations.