Apologies are powerful. I don’t mean the sad sack sorries women give when someone bumps into them, or when they ask for something at a restaurant (“Sorry, can I have a menu?”). I once apologized to a shelf for bumping into him/it. We need less of those kinds of apologies. But I’m talking about genuine apologies when you have something to be sorry for. We need more of those.
So here’s a start:
- I’m sorry, Scotty, that Marco and I would shake up the 2-liter bottle of Coke before you came to babysit us and then be all, “Scotty! Scotty! We want Coke!” and then laugh like a-holes when you got Coke spilled all over you. If our behavior had anything to do with you being featured in the Acton Police Beat for drug dealing in later years, I’m doubly sorry.
- I’m sorry, little boy I babysat for when I was 16. I took my hands off of you for a split second and you rolled off of the changing table. You cried and cried and I cried too. I’m sorry to your parents too. I never told them because I was too mortified. As a parent, I cringe at every aspect of this story, including the part where I didn’t tell you the truth. [Note: the little boy was okay.]
- I’m sorry, Hazy and George, for dropping both of you at different times during your babyhood. Lesson learned, I guess I shouldn’t be in charge of babies.
- I’m sorry, gymnastics coach, that I didn’t make it clear that I really couldn’t wait five more minutes to go to the bathroom. Also sorry that it was #2. In my leotard. Also sorry, girl who was standing in line behind me. That couldn’t have smelled good.
- I’m sorry, Mikey, that I cried when you told everyone in second grade that we used to bathe together when we were babies. You just wanted some street cred and I was too self-absorbed to let you have it.
- I’m sorry, Mom and Dad, that I used to be embarrassed that we had Mongolian Hot Pot for Thanksgiving dinner. Now I realize that it’s a bajillion times cooler than turkey, but I just wanted to be like the other kids.
- I’m sorry, C, that I didn’t give you the break up you deserved after our sweet high school relationship. I know from your overzealous best friend that it felt like I “dicked you over” and you deserved better than that.
- I’m sorry, Mom & Dad, that you had to hire the “dream team” to fight my transportation charge. It was a 12-pack and I was 20, but if Hazel ever does that to me, I will be ripshit.
- I’m sorry, college me, that you thought your self-worth hinged on the attention of frat boys.
- I’m sorry, frat boy “John Doe”, that I wrote, “John Doe likes little boys” on all the Baker Library tables. Actually, not sorry at all. You deserved it. I deserve an apology.
- I’m sorry, Beth, that after six years of living with me and my misophonia, that you can barely eat a steak without living in fear of the sound your chewing.
- Beth, I’m also sorry about that awkward Chicago/Peter Cetera phase of depression music I made you listen to freshman year. But, you have to admit, Glory of Love is the perfect song. Also, “Hard to Say I’m Sorry” is kind of fitting here, no? No.
- I’m sorry, girl who stole an NYC cab from me, that I told you to “take your bad dye job back to Kansas” and then shut the door on your legs. And thank you, for teaching me how to win all future girl arguments. I never wore that skirt again after your sarcastic, “that skirt’s really slimming,” and I asked my friends if I looked fat the whole rest of the night.
- I’m sorry, Staci, for that time I left you in a bar at 2 am and lost your fedora and then your purse got stolen and you had to rely on the kindness of strangers to make it back into your apartment. The only way I could’ve been a worse friend is if I built a time machine and dropped you as a baby.
- I’m sorry, Matty, that you seem to be under the impression that I lost your glasses when we both know that you were the last one who had them. That was a trick apology. Beware of those, guys.
- I’m sorry, guy I witnessed being bullied on the subway. I didn’t know how to stand up for you without risking harm to myself. (And thank you/hats off to the strong woman with five older brothers who told the subway bully, “that man will make it home safely” and “you will not touch him,” like a boss. Now I know what to do next time.)
- I’m sorry, Hazy and George, that I turn into the Hulk twice a week when it takes you 17 minutes to brush your teeth and put on your shoes. I just can’t comprehend why it’s this hard for anyone past the age of 2 to be able to do this in a more timely manner.
- I’m sorry, Nana, that I won’t make it up to Toronto for your big 101st birthday next week. Please know that I celebrate you every day in my heart, and we will all celebrate you a little extra on your special day.
- I’m sorry to all the people to whom I genuinely owe an apology. This is a poor excuse, but my memory is flighty. So flighty, in fact, that I need to set phone alarms to do simple tasks like buy cream cheese and “beans,” whatever that means. Buy them? Cook them?
Believe me, if I remember how I wronged you, I will apologize. So, sorry, Beans? Feel free to add an apology (not to me, unless you owe me one, coughcoughMatty) in the comments section. It feels good!
4 thoughts on “Apologies”
I witnessed a girl get bullied by a crazy homeless lady at a Chicago bus stop at 7 in the morning. it was 2003, but that shouldn’t be an excuse. on my way to my unpaid internship during grad school, i watched a homeless chick call a chunkier lady (probably my current circa 2018 size) fat and obese and yell at her and i said fucking nothing, and neither did the other 20 something ladies waiting on the bus that morning. we all just stared and were thankful she wasn’t screaming “YOU FAT FUCKING COW” at us. i was afraid this chick would try to kill me or something, and i KNOW almost 40 something-me now would have definitely stood up to her. I think about that morning like several times a month. so, many times each year. it was awful. that feels kinda good to say!
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I can totally identify with this! It’s so hard to speak up because you’re worried you’ll become the new target.
“…that skirt is really slimming.” FREAKIN’ CLASSIC.
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Still scarred by that.