Blush on

I don’t remember exactly when I became aware of the fact that I could never successfully tell a lie. I had no problem twisting the truth, per se. When I was in school, I was very capable of transferring the blame for any misdemeanour, onto one of my two hapless brothers. 

I mean, why would I not like watching their ears getting boxed by our disciplinarian mother? It was definitely a more preferred option than being subjected to the agony myself. 

But I could not do it. That is because my face gave me away. 

It is not that my nose twitched or eyes became shifty. I could consciously control those doubting gestures by staring vacantly into space. No, that was not the case. The problem was that whenever I lied, my entire visage became suffused in a dark shade of crimson. And there was nothing I could do to stop it. I would be caught out in a jiffy, and the scolding was instantaneous. 

This automatic blushing system, which nature supplied me with as unwanted baggage, was soon utilised as a sort of litmus test. By my friends and family, that is. If the authenticity of any incident or remark had to be checked, they simply put it through me. You know, like the blue paper turning red under acidic conditions, my face would do the needful. 

Somewhere along the way I sensitised myself enough to figure out exactly when a blush was about to make its unexpected appearance. The minute I was subjected to any kind of untruth, at the very onset, the tips of my earlobes would start to tingle. It was as if a lightening rod was being applied to them. This sensation, spreading to my temples, would generate a deep flush on my cheeks, making me resemble a ruddy-faced monkey. 

Also, the same thing happened if I was exposed to too much sunshine, excessive heat, or unblinking stares, from friends and strangers alike. I learned to live with it and took appropriate steps to protect myself from such situations when they presented themselves. 

And then, most unwillingly, I stumbled into a midlife crisis, a time that I was most unprepared for. It altered my personality beyond recognition. The mood swings fluctuated from one extreme to another and, forget others, even I found it difficult to live with myself. There were days when I contemplated running away from home, but how could I hide from my own self? 

The hot flushes were added fallout of this bewildering turn of events. I was used to blushing in shyness, embarrassment or untruthfulness but this was like being in a state of constant blush. Unmindful of the weather conditions, I would break out into a hot flush at the drop of a proverbial hat.

In sheer misery, I took to carrying folding-fans with me. I bought beautiful ones trimmed in Venetian lace, with pretty patterns on them. At the slightest excuse I would unfold one and wave it vigorously. 

“Are you hot?” a suave gentleman asked me at a party recently. 

“In my youth, or now?” I joked. 

“Excuse me?” he was surprised. 

“No,” I clarified. 

“I think not much has changed,” he stated.

“Excuse me?” it was my turn to be startled. 

“Since your younger days,” he explained, smiling. 

“The heat is making you blind,” I muttered. 

“And what is making you blush?” he queried. 

“This lie detector test,” I said, unfolding my hand fan.