On February 3, 2007, shortly before lunch, I discovered that
I was a chronic liar. I was at home, writing a review article
on moral psychology, when my wife, Jayne, walked by my
desk. In passing, she asked me not to leave dirty dishes on
the counter where she prepared our baby’s food. Her
request was polite but its tone added a postscript: “As I
have asked you a hundred times before.”
My mouth started moving before hers had stopped.
Words came out. Those words linked themselves up to say
something about the baby having woken up at the same
time that our elderly dog barked to ask for a walk and I’m
sorry but I just put my breakfast dishes down wherever I
could. In my family, caring for a hungry baby and an
incontinent dog is a surefire excuse, so I was acquitted. [...]
So there I was at my desk, writing about how people
automatically fabricate justifications of their gut feelings,
when suddenly I realized that I had just done the same thing
with my wife. I disliked being criticized, and I had felt a flash
of negativity by the time Jayne had gotten to her third word
(“Can you not …”). Even before I knew why she was
criticizing me, I knew I disagreed with her (because
intuitions come first). The instant I knew the content of the
criticism (“… leave dirty dishes on the …”), my inner lawyer
went to work searching for an excuse (strategic reasoning
second). It’s true that I had eaten breakfast, given Max his
first bottle, and let Andy out for his first walk, but these
events had all happened at separate times. Only when my
wife criticized me did I merge them into a composite image
of a harried father with too few hands, and I created this
fabrication by the time she had completed her onesentence
criticism (“… counter where I make baby food?”).
I then lied so quickly and convincingly that my wife and I
both believed me.
Another example, from The Righteous Mind: