Excutitis

Excusitis

Suzanne Marsh

“You have more excuses than Carter has pills,” my dad exclaimed. I began to mull over what I had done and equate it with a halfway good excuse. There were several issues I had with Dad, more like several thousand. Being an only child may seem wonderful to those with brothers and sisters; it is not. Brothers and sisters can blame each other for their follies. Being an only child, there is no one to blame; out of the ashes of blame rises a phoenix; excusitis. I became very proficient with excusitis throughout my life. Dad was not a good person to give any type of excuse to; I tried, but to no avail.

I remember one particular time, when I was nine years old, I hated wearing glasses, particularly the pink ones with silver sparkles. The nuns forced us to stand in the sun on the playground for ten minutes a day. That day, I discovered that the nose piece moved just slightly. I continued to play with it then suddenly the frame broke in half. I had no idea how I was going to explain this to my dad; I had to find the best excuse possible, it was going to cost money to have them repaired. Dad came home from work, and there I stood a half of my glasses in each hand. He waited as I chose my words carefully: “Dad, the nuns made us stand outside in a line, and the sun melted my glasses.” It sounded lame to me, but it was the best I could do. That began the years of excusitis.

The nun years were my best excuse from homework, not turning in homework; the dog ate it. My favorite was “I forgot it, can I go home and get it?” That was similar to waving a red flag in front of a bull. I had one nun who understood me very well; she was an older nun who dealt with children all the time. I remember that day in June so clearly. She had promoted me on condition, if my marks were not good, I would have to repeat sixth grade. That was not for me; the following year, my grades were all in the nineties. Dad was pleased to see the improvement, he was beginning to wonder if I was just a late bloomer, although he did see my final report card for sixth grade; he raised his eyebrows,; glaring.

“Would you care to explain this?” I looked Dad in the eye and proclaimed: “It is not my fault sister

doesn’t like me.” Dad, his suspicions raised, tried again: “Your grades are terrible, don’t you think

Before you answer questions. How in the hell did you manage to get a sixty-two in math?” This was one of those confrontations I despised growing up. Seventh grade provided me with a young nun with a sense of humor. I ran track that year, and I was on the relay team. My grades were all nineties, even math at eighty-six for me, that was a small miracle. Then came eighth grade; my homeroom teacher, math, and science was an old babysitter, who did not like me at all. I suppose if I hadn’t kicked her in the shins, she might have been a little nicer. She made my life a living hell; I reciprocated. I was on the relay team once again. She thought I should have been in the classroom, and the priest in charge got into it with her. I was never sure who won the argument, but I ran track, which got me out of class. Dad was pleased I was on the track team; he was not pleased with the grades. I had a science project that year, Mom had lamb lungs in the freezer, and I had a chemistry lab down in the basement. I remember one time I heated and reheated cobalt chloride, taking paint off the basement wall. Dad sort of flipped out. He asked me what in the hell was wrong with me, and I was not allowed around the chemistry set for a month. I told Dad I was experimenting; he knew better, it was a decent excuse, but not one of my better ones.

I married right out of high school, not the most intelligent thing I could have done. I doubt I will ever forget the day I told my parents I was pregnant; there was a problem here: I wasn’t married. Dad was angry and hurt. Mom was angry; she asked why I was pregnant (this called for a delicate and rueful excuse. I had no idea. I began to think there was nothing I could say to my parents; the truth at best was lame: the best I could do was say I was sorry and that I had no idea about birth control. Which was true, it was also an excuse, I knew about the rhythm method and condoms; that didn’t help either. I was married on my eighteenth birthday. Do I regret it? Yes, I do. I don’t have any excuse for that except lust.

My former husband was not the sharpest knife in the drawer; he began to develop a rash in the wrong place. Why? This particular excuse is perhaps my best. He could not understand why he was so uncomfortable. I knew a mixture of itching powder and salt, my excuse: “I knew you were cheating on me, so I mixed these two, hope you enjoyed them.

I remarried after the divorce; he is a good man whom I love dearly. I still have excusitis periodically. The time I rear-ended a cement truck. The policemen arrived, there I sat the car up and slightly under the ICC bumper. The officer asked me what happened: “Well sir, I wasn’t exactly paying attention to what I was doing. I was attempting to hook up the phone to call my husband

since I was running late, the next thing I knew, there was the back end of the cement truck.” The officer gave me an odd glare and wrote me a one hundred and fifty dollar ticket!

Excusitis had struck once again!