It’s reported that the average person tells zero to two lies per day. About 5% of the population are prolific liars responsible for telling roughly half of all recorded lies. As for the other 95%, their small amount of lies range from deceit to harmless fibs.

I believe this data is a bit flawed, though, given the fact that we all tell an immeasurable amount of lies to ourselves every day.

I, for one, am guilty of such behavior. I often feign being joyful or happy when I’m not. I behave as if I’m not allowed to be in a funk, let alone express it. Just think how many times each of us have felt poorly and someone asked, “How are you doing?” to which we replied, “Good.”

We protect certain pieces of ourselves. We’re convinced that it’s audacious to burden an acquaintance or stranger with the truth about our feelings; therefore, we lie. We humans really know how to bar the door when intimacy comes knocking.

Last week I returned from a seven-day vacation. Per usual, I found myself hanging my head just thinking of returning to work. I didn’t dread waking up early or resuming my responsibilities. I just dreaded the lies I would tell myself. I knew that once faced with everyday minutiae, I’d feel that my life was being squandered.

Of course, it’s natural to have the blues after any reprieve from the daily grind, but this time it was different. This time it felt heavier. This time I began counting time, and I didn’t like the calculations. The clock was ticking and I could almost hear the second hand in my head. Each second louder and louder. My life back home felt autonomous.

TICK-TOCK, TICK-TOCK, TICK-TOCK played the rhythm to the soundtrack of my life, thundering and deafening with each second, and I couldn’t find the volume button.

Once the suitcases were unpacked from the car, I watched every member of my immediate family go their separate ways. TICK-TOCK, TICK-TOCK….

Our oldest son quickly commandeered his truck and disappeared to Starkville. Our daughter and youngest son sought privacy in their bedrooms. Summer had begun and they had plans, plans inherent to youth. “They have so many years ahead of them,” I thought. I couldn’t decipher the emotions that were sweeping over me. I felt a longing. Was I jealous of my children? Was I jealous of time?

I looked around my home, how lucky I should have felt. I have a home, not just a house. But I kept telling myself lies, lies about how things should or shouldn’t be. The noise still remained, TICK-TOCK, TICK-TOCK, TICK-TOCK.

The thought of work loomed and I felt smothered. “Twenty more years of grinding,” I thought, maybe more. I already missed what was gone and I couldn’t make the previous week of bliss return. It was over. I had photos, but they were just reminders of what I couldn’t keep. TICK-TOCK, TICK-TOCK….

That afternoon I took the trash to the street. Columbus felt quiet and hot. The other town, the town from vacation, seemed better. There’s nothing wrong with Columbus. I just felt that happiness only existed in that other town. My family couldn’t go their separate ways in that other town, and time didn’t exist in that other town. But was that true?

I drove to Walmart later that afternoon. I suddenly realized how nice it was to drive so easily through a town without congested traffic. I returned home to my dogs, who greeted me with their joy for existence. I relaxed in my favorite chair and read a book. I noticed I heard nothing … silence. The clock had resumed its native pace. It had slowed and grown quiet; tick … tock … tick … tock …

Had I compartmentalized my life to protect sacred pieces of it? Was my vacation my only source of happiness? If I could have told myself enough lies, then maybe it would have all made sense.

Only I am responsible for my happiness, but I was standing on a whale fishing for minnows.

That Sunday night, as I lay in bed, I told myself that I might never be happy, especially if I continued lying to myself.

I awoke the next morning in the comfort of my own bed and smiled. My home brought happiness and my dogs suggested joy, so I allowed both emotions to stay, as they should exist everywhere I go.

Life is good, bad, boring and exhilarating. It will always be what it’s meant to be, wherever that may be. It’s said that “wherever you go, there you are,” so why not let happiness come too?

In the words of Walt Whitman: Happiness, not in another place but this place … not for another hour, but this hour.

Clay Bowen is a Columbus native who cooked professionally as a chef in fine dining for 12 years and appeared on the third season of Top Chef. He is also a licensed landscape horticulturist. Email him at [email protected].

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