Who’s Sorry Now?

Some people apologize so many times for the same thing you wish they’d stop, become un-sorry or, best of all, never speak to you again.

Then there’s another team of apologizers, that solid core of phonies who try to pawn off “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings” – or some such nonsense – as sincere.  It’s anything but.  It’s just their way of saying “I had every right to do (or say) that, and there’s nothing in the world that will make me change my mind.”  Then man up and just say that, asshole.

Here comes team three, marching onto the field and ready to issue their own brand of apology. In fact, they’ve reduced it to a single word, “Sorry!” By itself, it’s a word that can mean just about anything, like “excuse me,” or “I didn’t mean to fart on the turkey,” or “how would I know that doggy bag with your name on it wasn’t for me?”  “Oops” or “my bad” would be far better choices.

Okay team four, take off your warm-up suits because it’s your apologies I hate the most. That’s because they’re sincere, void of affectation, no ulterior motive, nothing but a genuine expression of guilt or remorse.  You know why I hate them? Because (except for words of condolence) they suck the life out of me, rob me of my steam, and squash any further attempt to make the other party feel miserable, small, or unloved.

Take my wife Monika, the consensus captain of team four. When she pisses me off and even half-way thinks she might be in the wrong, her apology isn’t always quick in coming. She first needs to explore the “What did I do wrong…I meant no harm!” angle.

While she’s working that out, my combative rebuttal is taking shape, just waiting for her to say even one more word to defend or deny her obvious transgression.  The second she starts, I’ll be ready with: “Oh, you’re wondering what set me off, are you?!  Right now, YOU’RE setting me off!”  Wait, wait, I’ve got a better one: “So, what I think doesn’t MATTER anymore? That’s what you’re saying?” It’s not just the words, it’s the look.  I give great look.

And yet here’s the rub.  While I’m gearing up for the slaughter, Monika’s patiently working things out, one rational step at a time. And then wham, right in my face: “I’m sorry, honey. I understand why you’re upset; I just didn’t realize it meant that much to you.”

Huh?  What the hell kind of fighting is that? Can’t you tell I was ready to tear a path of destruction up one side of you and down the other, and the best you’ve got is “I’m sorry?!”

The problem is, she means it.

Eventually the ill winds blow over, huggy huggy, kissy kissy, “Are we okay?”, “Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?”, and all that crap.  Still, deep down inside, I can’t help but think: “Next time, don’t be so damn quick to apologize!”