I write fiction, and the truth was the best I could do?

I passed on an offer to play golf after work today in favor of coming home to enjoy a picnic in the park with my wife and daughter.

I passed on stopping at the gym, worried that my wife might need a hand with our daughter before heading out to the park.

So I was home, in the midst of changing a poopy diaper, when my buddy called from the golf course, asking me what I was doing.

Stupid me, I told him.  He made sure to tell me how much fun he was having on the links, and I’m likely to hear about it again soon. 

Bad timing, albeit regrettable, is sometimes unavoidable, but honesty is always optional.  There’s no excuse for the unnecessary and potentially damaging protestations of truth.  I could have told him anything.

I’m watching my wife model lingerie. 

I just witnessed my daughter’s first steps.

I just witnessed your daughter’s first steps as your wife was modeling lingerie.

Seriously.  What was I thinking?