My husband is convinced that — as of late — I have become a full-blown, unrepentant ’embellisher’. Not a liar, mind you. Not even an exaggerator. But definitely an ’embellisher’. He’s convinced that I change details to make the story more interesting… more worthy of the listener’s time. For example, while he would tell friends that he and I took a stroll through the forest the other day and were bothered by thousands of pesky mosquitoes, I would claim to have had a heart-pounding journey through the dark woods in which I was attacked by tiny trolls.
I know, silly right? I’m not suddenly an ’embellisher’. I mean, come on, my own husband should know that I have always been one.
It’s not really my fault, as I come from a long line of ’embellishers’. We like to see people laugh. And if the tale we have to tell needs a touch of flair, well, then flair is what it’ll get. And, yes, we’ll embellish a bit. And honestly, it’s not intential, as though we plan the added details while rubbing our hands together with sinister intent. It’s a gift. Yes, a gift. Because I also come from a long line of story tellers. And story tellers don’t see the world as everyone else does. They see it as a magical place, full of mystery, excitement, and romance. Everything is bigger, brighter, and more exciting. So to my husband, I say that people would much rather listen to my stories, because they’re more fun. And they aren’t embellished. They’re how I saw things.
I don’t think he’s convinced yet, and he’s been paying closer attention to everything I say as of late. He waits, hoping for the chance to pounce and exlaim, “Aha, that was embellished!” I say that he should watch himself, or he’ll find himself in one of my stories — as the grumpy old jailer who’s been in the dark dungeon too long. 😉
Oh, wait, hold that thought…. There’s a dragon outside my window.