Radical Honesty

I've never invested much time in Esquire magazine because it always struck me as Cosmo for men. I don't care about the latest fashions I can't afford, Scarlett Johansson's opinion regarding the sexiest woman in the world or how white sneakers can make me look younger. And I really don't care about the 10 things I don't know about women (e.g., "It's always, always better to go commando than to show up in tighty-whiteys." - Téa Leoni), because no matter how much I know, it will never be enough.

Yesterday, however, my friend Layne gave me the July issue because it features a new Stephen King novella, The Gingerbread Girl. So this morning, while waking up to my morning coffee, I flipped through the magazine and stopped at A.J. Jacobs' article, I Think You're Fat - a well-written, humorous feature about the Radical Honesty movement, it's founder Brad Blanton, and A.J. Jacobs' attempt at living a brutally honest life.

In short, Radical Honesty is living a life sans lies - you must always tell the truth. It sounds simple, but as Jacobs found, it can be difficult and, at times, amusing and beneficial.

The next day, we get a visit from my wife's dad and stepmom.
"Did you get the birthday gift I sent you?" asks her stepmom.
"Uh-huh," I say.
She sent me a gift certificate to Saks Fifth Avenue.
"And? Did you like it?"
"Not really. I don't like gift certificates. It's like you're giving me an errand to run."
"Well, uh . . ."

Once again, I felt the thrill of inappropriate candor. And I felt something else, too. The paradoxical joy of being free from choice. I had no choice but to tell the truth. I didn't have to rack my brain figuring out how to hedge it, spin it, massage it.

"Just being honest," I shrug. Nice touch, I decide; helps take the edge off. She's got a thick skin. She'll be okay. And I'll tell you this: I'll never get a damn gift certificate from her again.

Jacobs also discovers how total honesty can be problematic, especially when interacting with women.

I have a business breakfast with an editor from Rachael Ray's magazine. As we're sitting together, I tell her that I remember what she wore the first time we met -- a black shirt that revealed her shoulders in a provocative way. I say that I'd try to sleep with her if I were single. I confess to her that I just attempted (unsuccessfully) to look down her shirt during breakfast.

She smiles. Though I do notice she leans back farther in her seat.

The entire article entertains and - to be honest - is much better than I expected from Esquire. So, if you have some time, I recommend picking up the magazine, or just read the article online for free...