#100: In Defense of the Fabled Fib

ESSAY

Tuesday night over tacos I casually mentioned how I accidentally set myself on fire. My friends’ lower lips scooped. Mouths falling into shocked little o’s. 

“You what?”

I hadn’t realized this was news. This is a common occurrence for me. Not the fire thing. Causally referencing a tale I’ve forgotten to tell. 

I love a story. I enjoy weaving a narrative, spinning a yarn, forging a fable. So I often end up telling and retelling the same anecdote until it’s usurped by the latest shenanigan. Sometimes, a story gets to its intended audience in a timely manner. Other times, I’m sure I’ve told a pal a plot only to find their mouth a shocked little o. 

I accidentally set myself on fire getting ready for our friend’s wedding. I was sure I had told them at said wedding. But I guess with all the love and boogying and heartwarmth it never came up. 

“Ariana, how did you accidentally set yourself on fire?”

So I launched into the story I hadn’t told in a while. 

“I was in the bathroom getting ready and I’d been sitting on the toilet for awhile. Pooping I guess.”

The details were fuzzy, but I was filling in the gaps before I had time to think. 

“I leaned over a lit candle on the counter with my right hand to flip on the sink. I filled up my cup. Gross I know. Left hand busy scrolling through TikTok.”

My friends, generous and kind, did not shame me for the poop beverage. They understand the plight of a getting-ready-scramble before a big event. Also, and unfortunately, it’s not terribly off-brand for me. Scramble or not. 

“So I’m scrolling and think to myself, huh my elbow is warm. Then, wow my elbow is really hot. Finally, I look over and realize my sweatshirt is ablaze. I drop the overflowing cup in the sink. Not thinking to use the water to douse the flames. I slap at the fire, blotting it out with my bare hand.” 

Gentle reader, as I recounted this part, I thought to myself, that can’t be right. Whenever I see a character swatting at flames with their raw palms in movies and TV I always think, no way, not me. Touch the fire? Intentionally? Not a chance! I didn’t include the detail to sound brave. Frankly, it seems more stupid than brave to me anyway. A product of adrenaline more than courage. But I knew I quickly put out the flames and I remembered the irony of not using the overfilled water cup as a story beat. 

We laughed and I searched “set myself on fire” in my messages to produce a photo of the scorched sweatshirt. 

As you can see, the candle in question is accompanied by an open bottle of acetone. More potential fuel for fire, in case the literal garments on my person weren’t enough. Upon finding the photo, I realized the version I’d just spewed wasn’t entirely True. I hadn’t been pooping at all! See? I’m not that gross! Except I am, just not in this instance. Which is why it was easy to believe that’s why I’d been seated on the toilet for an extended enough period to become parched. 

I was sitting on the closed-lid pot painting my crusty toenails to prep them for my reception-ready strappy heels. Just as this clarity arrived, I remembered there was no swatting at the blaze. I’d simply blown it out. Like a birthday cake with too many candles. It took several big spitty breaths. 

These details don’t make the story any better or worse, in my humble opinion. They would have, however, made it True. I didn’t mean to fib to my friends. I simply wanted to tell a good story. And specificity is key. When a turn needed a detail, my imagination provided one, a believable one, worked in with humor and tact. This is how it feels to write personal narrative to me. The Truth can be elusive but the truth of the story lives within me. Even when the details get fuzzy, unintentionally filled out with fibs. None of us are reliable narrators. Not entirely. Our lived experiences, while real and true, are warped by perspective and time, pressure and mood. And yes, for me, sometimes showmanship. 

As a highly sensitive, hyperbolic, sensationally exaggerative, self-proclaimed drama queen, I defend the fabled fib. Give me detail! Give me drama! Give me narrative-driven shocked little o’s! When you’re telling me a personal story, I’m here for a good time not a factually correct one. I’m not asking you to be a liar, but I’m not forcing you to be a Truther. (Thank you, Drake & Josh.) 

All of that is to say, friends, please forgive me my fabled fibs. I promise to use them wisely, with fair and funny spin. 

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Today marks the 100th (free) edition of this very newsletter! Woohoo! Good deal! Other celebratory phrase! 

Thanks for reading! If you want to celebrate by upgrading to a paid subscription, here’s 25% off.

I’ll be on family vacation for the next two weeks, so the newsletter will be on hiatus. Paid subs will hear from me Wednesday. But the rest of y’all are rid of me until #101 on June 21. Rejoice in the inbox reprieve! 

ily bye,

Ariana