The Apology Tour that Never Was

It gets exhausting, this compulsion to apologize for every stupid thing that comes out of my mouth. Okay, maybe not stupid—more like thoughtless. It seems that no matter what I say, or how gently I try to couch my words in an uplifting tone, I manage to offend, annoy or generally piss people off.

My efforts at keeping my thoughts to myself, or at least severely toning them down for general consumption, are failing miserably. It seems that every other word out of my mouth is some epically failed attempt to make nice. It might be time to accept who I am, exactly as I am, because nothing I do seems to change anything.

Starting today, I will stop apologizing. I will cease to justify my words in what feels like a pathetic need to defend my mere existence. Full disclosure, I do express myself through a lot of um, colorful phrases, but my intention is never to use my words to cause harm. It’s not my fault if people can’t accept a few hard truths. Right?

The online personality test I paid $75 for confirmed that my life’s purpose is to lift people up, so it makes no sense that I would be intentionally trying to bring them down! My helpful suggestions come from a place of trying to protect, to save people from their idiotic decisions. I mean, if you see the train coming, isn’t it your duty to warn the clueless moron to get off the tracks? Oops, that might be the kind of language that people misinterpret.

I’m struggling to remember why I even started this time-consuming and frankly weak habit of apologizing for what feels like every freaking thing I say or do. I’m sure my dad would say it’s a sign of low self-esteem. I don’t think so, though, as I’ve come to realize that I’m kind of fun and I enjoy my own company more than just about anyone else’s. Except my cat, Lizard.

Did apologizing become a way of escaping my poor dating choices? I used to have this habit of picking men who were either too immature or emotionally unavailable to handle my “alternative perspectives.” My purpose was to help in their growth by empowering their understanding of the reason a shaved head looks way better than a combover or why having a Velcro wallet is not a solid life choice. My worst offense was probably when I told this clearly insecure guy that his job as an investment banker gave him the appearance of being emotionally bankrupt. I didn’t say he was actually emotionally bankrupt, so why were his slacks in such a swivel? Apparently, he found me to be “an ungrateful, spoiled and completely out of touch daddy’s girl.”

So, there I was again, offering a vomit-inducing apology to restore our budding relationship’s equilibrium. It felt like I was dishing out a sweet saccharine turd, hating the very taste of it before it left my mouth. Look at me, willing to swallow my words, again, for the sake of romance!

Continuing my apology tour, I found myself mumbling, “I’m so sorry I judged you for having the appearance of being emotionally bankrupt. There wasn’t enough evidence for that conclusion.” I know, you probably don’t think that sounds like an apology—I told you I was bad at this. Big shocker--that was our one and only date. Are you getting the idea of why it’s so hard to be me? There are emotional landmines wherever I go.

Feeling disheartened by my inability to form a stable connection, I was ready to swear off all men, resigning myself to a life of pretending that my ride or die girlfriends were all I needed. Who needed a man? I could fix a flat tire myself okay, call AAA, earn my own money minus what I owe on student loans but most importantly, could amuse myself on a Friday night by bingeing on Gray’s Anatomy and yogurt covered pretzels.

That was before Steve, who, against all odds, didn’t cast me aside after our first date. The friend who bravely set us up was counting on the fact that Steve’s benevolent nature would bolster his ability to put up with me, while still allowing enough of his “charming quirks” to show through. She knows that I am not attracted to normal guys—I like someone who can fly his freak flag.

I couldn't tell much by the picture she showed me, except that he had kind eyes and sexy little dimples. There was something intriguing about his playful expression, so I decided to brave one more potentially disastrous meetup. On the evening of our first date, I arrived at the restaurant thirty minutes early. I was feeling clever for implementing my practice of the preemptive recon, the planned escape if something seemed off. I know, I’m spineless, but doing this has saved me from having to dish out another one of my failed apologies to some guy I would never see again anyway.

Twenty minutes into my waiting, I looked out the window and saw Steve heading toward the restaurant. BONUS, he was taller than he seemed in his picture, and he was early for our date! He really might be a saint: I was lucky if my previous dates even showered before they left the house. Just as Steve was about to open the door, I saw him start talking to some dude who was waiting outside. I looked closer and saw that the guy wasn't waiting; he was parked on his sleeping bag with his cluttered shopping cart right next to him. Steve was having a genuine conversation, not avoiding eye contact or brushing by him like most people would. Steve was willingly engaged in conversation, his compassionate presence visible even through the window. They talked for what felt like forever before Steve handed him twenty bucks and shook his hand.

Finally, Steve opened the front door, a big smile on his face when he looked over and saw me. Any other person would have appeared smug after talking to some homeless, sorry, unhoused person, looking around to see if anyone had noticed him being such a generous, swell guy. But Steve said nothing and seemed completely clueless that I had seen his interaction.

Wow, was I in the presence of a genuinely good guy? Who was hot, and judging by his Ramones t-shirt he tried to hide under a not hideous flannel shirt, wasn’t boring! My friend had gone on and on about how underappreciated and misunderstood Steve had been by his previous girlfriends. Oh, I definitely could see myself appreciating him. As obnoxious as I am, no one can deny that I am a champion for the misunderstood. Takes one to know one. There had to be something wrong with him, right?

Fast forward six months: Steve has survived and even seems amused by my shenanigans. With him, everything is effortless; he accepts the worst parts of me. Isn’t there something about me he wants to fix? I can finally be myself. I am free to express my opinions, my quirks, my insecurities. He loves me wholly, perfectly; I guess I don’t get this whole concept of unconditional love. When I ask him to explain it to me, he smiles and says things like “because you’re so perfectly you!” Huh? It is possible that I do have a little bit of a self-esteem problem because I can’t seem to see myself through Steve’s eyes. He’s told me he understands the hurt behind my bravado and knows that I truly never intend to create the shitstorms that are my trademark. He remains steadfast as I try to pull away from his raw and pure love for me. My therapist calls that my sabotage addiction. But that’s a whole other story and I don’t think that relates to why I apologize all the time.

There is a small chance that I apologize because of my unstable job history. I am what you might call a late bloomer. If I were a man, people would charmingly refer to me as having Peter Pan Syndrome, shaking their heads while feeling envious of my freedom. But no…as a woman, this same free-spiritedness causes them to worry that I’ll never be able to support myself. Why does no one worry about who is supporting this Peter Pan guy?

I am convinced I was born into the wrong generation. I love the unapologetic ways that Boomers and Gen Xers seem to live their lives. That kind of “quit your whining and deal” that doesn’t allow for excuses or big feelings at work. But that isn’t my reality: I work with a bunch of Gen Zers now who are all about expressing feelings, setting boundaries and practicing self-care. Shouldn’t this philosophy allow me to tell my boss when he’s causing me stress or asking me to do something that is outside of my comfort zone? I don’t think the fact that someone is your boss means you are required to do EVERYTHING they ask. As a career-minded adult, shouldn’t I be able to choose who I work with best? If it’s harmful to my mental health, I don’t think I should have to work with people like Sterling, who by his name alone seems to think he’s better than all the rest of us.

There have been a few professional hiccups that in hindsight show my lack of workplace culture awareness. My worst infraction might have been the two-week period where I let the trash pile up in my office. “Isn’t that what the custodial staff is for?” I asked Irene when she commented on the state of my office. You should have seen the look of horror on her face. I had clearly shown my “elitism” by suggesting that Elsa should do her job, and I do mine. It wasn’t that I thought my job was more important; I was honoring the synergy between our two roles. I would be undermining Elsa’s autonomy if I took my own trash out. I found out a week later that Elsa had been on family leave to care for her mother. It’s kind of hard to empty the trash when you’re caring for your sick mom. Damn, it’s looking more and more like I’m a jerk.

I think you’re getting an idea of why I constantly find myself apologizing. Maybe it would be easier to stuff my feelings down, swallow my pride and intelligence to exist in a world of fools. Oops, there goes my critical voice again. See why this is so hard? What I mean is that we are each born with our own individual strengths and weaknesses. I know that it isn’t my job to tell people how to live their lives, and it is painfully evident that I am not a shining example of personal or professional success. I’m not sure I’m cut out for this mature adulting.

I can’t let these setbacks keep me from my true, goal-oriented personality. I think back to the life coach guru I accidentally met while I was working one of my catering shifts. The coach was the keynote speaker who “transformed lives” by teaching gullible workshop attendees about the importance of taking accountability. She claimed that once you truly take responsibility for your mistakes, you can give yourself permission to let go of guilt. What if I could privately own my mistakes, instead of apologizing every second of my life?

So here goes. I will make a list of situations where people might deserve an apology, and apologize, if only to myself. I will have taken accountability, and then, for the love of God, can move on to becoming my better self! What could possibly go wrong?

APOLOGY ACCOUNTABILITY LIST

Shelby: I’m sorry I didn’t attend your third baby shower. I know I RSVP’d that I would be there and big shocker, I backed out at the last minute. I see how hurtful and inconsiderate that might have been. But come on, what kind of prima donna has three baby showers, and have you ever once, even freaking once, wished me a happy birthday?

Veronica: I am truly sorry that I didn’t squeal with delight when everyone else was talking about how cute you looked in your outfit yesterday! True to my objective of lifting people up, I should have been helping you embrace body positivity! I mean seriously though, who wears a crop top with skinny jeans? I didn’t think hot pink was still a thing, and I don’t care what anyone says, exposed muffin top is not work appropriate.

Shit, I don’t think I’m doing very well at this apology thing. Come on Ebony, focus.

Dad: I’m sorry I maxed out your credit card, the one I was only supposed to use for emergencies. That was very selfish of me, and I understand your point that a trip to Carmel doesn’t exactly count as an emergency. To be fair, I had just been laid off and my mental health was suffering. You’ve always said my happiness is the most important thing, right? I do sound kind of spoiled, though. Am I spoiled?

Car wash attendant: I apologize for yelling at you after my car interior got completely soaked. As a customer, I recognize that it is my responsibility to follow the instructions to roll up my car windows, as indicated on no less than three signs leading into the car wash bay. But come on, as someone who literally washes cars for a living, shouldn’t you take more pride in your work to create an optimal customer experience? I still think it was the wrong business decision to not only refuse to offer me free car washes for a year, but to ban me FOR LIFE! from your establishment.

Grocery store clerk: I am sorry I ignored the clearly marked “10 items or less” sign above the express lane. I understand this rule exists to keep the lane moving quickly, out of respect for other people’s time. In my defense, the open checker next to you had a line four people deep, and you’d think he was best friends with everyone while he chatted them up! And worse, he got so distracted that he stopped scanning and no one else in line seemed to mind!! AND, while I might have had closer to 30 items, they were all the same thing. Well okay, six different flavors of the same thing. It’s not my fault that your shitty system forced you to enter each item code manually.

This isn’t feeling as cathartic as I had hoped. Instead of feeling a sense of peace from owning my actions, I am getting annoyed all over again by the decisions the people around me are making. This is obviously a complete waste of time.

But I’m also getting this foreign feeling. It’s somewhere between shame and embarrassment. Is that what taking accountability feels like? If it is, I don’t like it.

And for some random reason, I remember a phrase that Steve told me. He had been watching one of his favorite shows, Justified, and quoted a line some dude Raylan had just said.

“If you run into an asshole in the morning, you ran into an asshole. If you run into assholes all day, you're the asshole.”

Maybe he’s the asshole, with a name like Raylan.

I guess I had kind of interrupted Steve while he was in the middle of an episode. I learned from my therapist that my frequent need to interrupt shows selfishness and a lack of impulse control. I thought a therapist was supposed to be supportive. Anyway, this same therapist told me I am not supposed to keep my feelings bottled up, which is why I interrupted Steve in the first place!

I needed to vent to Steve that I had just been reamed by our uptight neighbor, who had the audacity to ask me to not leave our garbage cans in front of her driveway. It wasn’t my fault that the garbage trucks dumped them back in the wrong spot. Three days ago…my bad.

Shit. The signs had been there all along. Despite my best efforts to manage my emotions, work on my personal growth, exercise compassion, humility, blah blah blah, apologies were never going to be enough.

There is no denying the painfully obvious truth. I am the asshole. I don’t mean to be the asshole! I can be better. I will do better.

Tomorrow, I promise. I’ve still got a few things to get off my chest.