Bending the Truth

I guess I have a problem with not telling the truth.  It stems from long ago when I was in third grade.  You see, I didn’t like chocolate back then (I know, right?!) and classmates brought in birthday treats.  The first few times when classmates brought in a chocolate treat I was alright when declining.  But watching the other students enjoy the treat without me got old real quick.  So I made up a story.

I told everyone I was allergic to chocolate.  Problem solved.  Chocolate cupcakes for everyone and a vanilla one for me.  A chocolate chip cookie for everyone and a sugar cookie for me. The birthday treat for everyone else and a special treat from the teacher for me.  My chocolate problem was solved. Until the sleepover.

I was having two friends sleep over on a night where, unknowingly, my mom made my favorite chocolate brownies with a chocolate fudge icing.  I am not sure why I loved those brownies so much when really I did not like many chocolate desserts, but I adored those brownies, especially the same day when they were made.  Brownies are meant to be eaten on the very same day that they come out of the oven!

What to do?  My friends thought I was allergic to chocolate.  They were going to eat a brownie with or without me.  I chose with me. Delicious!  But now what?  They were wondering how I could eat the brownie if I was allergic to chocolate.  I waited a bit and then did what any nine year old would do.  I took a red marker into the bathroom with me.  A rash on my forearm was born.

When I returned to my friends, we continued to do what girls do at a sleepover.  Soon my “rash” had spread to my upper arm.  (We must have been playing hard and thanks to a little perspiration, my allergy was getting worse.) My memory gets a bit fuzzy here but I will never forget what my dad did when my friends told him I had a rash.  He did what all great fathers do…licked his fingers and rubbed that rash right off of my arm!  Humiliation at its finest!

Apparently I did not learn my lesson about fabricating allergies.  At the dinner table, Sam was recalling another one of my allergies.  “Remember when you told me you were allergic to glitter? I told my art teacher I couldn’t do the project because my mom was allergic to glitter!”  Yup, I used to be allergic to glitter too.



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