I can’t lie. Oh, I’d like to be able to, but my body won’t let me. If I try to be untruthful, I trigger such a massive “She’s lying!” physiological response that people can sense the utter ridiculousness of believing me. Lying is so mysterious to me that I find those who do it smoothly (unless they are parenting, sleeping with, formerly married to, or come from me) fascinating. The cool demeanor of the practiced liar is like black magic--dangerous and yet captivating, too. I would make a terrible double agent or ex-husband or customer service representative, ’cause those folks make a point of lying all the time. It’s in the job description, for heaven’s sake. No, lying is not something I can do, which is ironic since, as a college instructor, it’s something I’m exposed to every day. Like the student whose toddler-voiced girlfriend called me pretending to be his mother telling me that he was on the East Coast for a funeral and wouldn’t be able to attend class…and then made the mistake of going to the local copy center, where he bumped into me. Or the student who couldn’t make it to school because of a case of 
mono…and then posted “Off the hook!” pictures of himself doing body shots off a sorority girl the night before. And so many others. In Stan and Jan Berenstain’s The Truth, Brother and Sister Bear figure out what everybody has to learn eventually--mothers know everything so lying just wastes time.http://www.amazon.com/Berenstain-Bears-Truth-First-Books/dp/0394856406
http://budsartbooks.com/prod.cfm/pc/CHIPH/cid/43
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