Time to confess. Nothing illegal, of course. I’m not stupid. Besides, anything illegal that I might do should be legal anyway, so..yeah. No, I’m going to come clean on a few of my less than stellar moments in life and apologize for them. I figure you’re either asking why I’d expose myself in this way or if you know me, you just murmured, “No surprise there. It’s about damn time!” The truth is, I’m trying to lead us all into the light, one petty confession at a time. Come this way.
So, you know how you’re trying to fall asleep at night or you’re sitting at the Methadone clinic and something you did just pops into your head, something kind of morally or ethically questionable? Yeah, you know. My husband told me he had no idea what I was talking about so I suggested that he might be a sociopath. He didn’t respond. Sociopath.
First, the little stuff:
I apologize to “Football Head Eric” for, obviously, nicknaming you “Football Head Eric”. However, your head was totally shaped like a football. From the side, football. From the front, football. I know you had a crush on me when we were about, what 9 years old? You were super sweet and walked three blocks to show up on my front porch with some flowers. Instead of opening the door, I used our cool ass, 70s one-way security glass to just stare at you. OK, I sucked but I was NINE and at nine years old, a head shaped like a football is a deal breaker, as is a head shaped like a lightbulb, Frankenstein or a piece of toast.
I apologize to Mrs. Carmichael. I called you “farty face” and obviously, struck a chord because you ended up on my front porch telling on me (SNITCH!). My father listened patiently to your long, winding story which, apparently, led up to the worst thing that had ever happened to you in life: a smart ass neighbor kid calling you “farty face”. Look, I’m sorry, Mrs. Carmichael. Maybe you were sensitive about your face or maybe you were exhausted from relentless flatulence or perhaps combining those two things was a bridge too far. But, you’ve got to ask yourself what was going on in your life that you found yourself, 40ish, on the neighbor’s porch blubbering, snot running everywhere, because some kid said your face was “farty”. What in the hell does that even mean? I don’t even know what I was talking about. But, ok, whatever. SORRY.
I apologize to the woman on the tour of the Louisiana plantation house for letting you go off in the wrong direction when the rest of the tour had gone the other way. It’s just that you were “that person” in the tour group that tries to help the tour guide with your less than extensive knowledge on absolutely everything and I needed a break.
Other tour group person (upon entering an expansive interior room): “It sure is cool in here for a room in the middle of the house!”
Tour Guide (pointing to an electric fan in the corner): “Ah, we’ve cheated a bit. There’s an electric fan.”
You (loudly and smacking gum): “That fan was nice for the slaves though. They wouldn’t be so hot working in here.”
I knew you’d eventually find us or one of your friends would notice you were missing but when I saw you wander off, I just let you go and closed the door behind me. You looked happy.
Now for a little heavier lifting.
I’ve got to say this first or I’ll be crucified. All babies are precious. All babies are a blessing. All babies are innocent. All babies are beautiful. All babies are the best things on earth. All babies are everything good in the world. All babies, all the time, ALL good. Babies!
I apologize to the toddler whose picture I came across on the internet. I apologize for thinking you were so funny looking that I kept your picture on my phone so when I felt a little down, I could pull it out and see you with your crazy hair and little buggy eyes and laugh hysterically. Yes, I know, I KNOW. Before you rip me a new one, let me dredge up some sympathy by admitting that I’m no stranger to those “rough spots” some of us go through growing up. I was freakishly gorgeous up until about 12. From 13 to 16 you could say I suffered a few setbacks. Years later, my mother told me, “We didn’t think you were going to make it. We thought we might lose you.” As in, I was so homely, they thought it might actually kill me. My OWN MOTHER said that. It smarts to think my parents were just shaking their heads every time I passed them in the hallway or bumped into them in the kitchen wondering when they’d find me dead from “ugly”. I went back to being really, really good looking (yay, me!) after a few years so everything is copacetic and you needn’t worry. I just wanted you to know that I’ve suffered too. Anyway, there is something inherently hilarious about a toddler who looks like Ernest Borgnine. Go ahead and tell me how awful I am but I’ll stand by that all day long.
Finally, I apologize to the donation collector man at the Goodwill drop-off spot for reporting you to your supervisor for being surly and argumentative. “Oh, sweetheart,” you’re thinking, “of course you should have reported him. He had no right!” Well, did I mention he was mentally handicapped? Yeah, I drove home, found the number on the Goodwill receipt and phoned in a complaint about a mentally. handicapped. volunteer. I even went so far as to leave a message after no one picked up so I imagine somewhere out there, my message from a decade ago lives on. He was surly, argumentative, unfriendly! He questioned the integrity of my donation! He isn’t good with people! I said all of that…and more. I must have been having one helluva bad day.
I just read this back. It is a blindingly beautiful example of “sorry, not sorry” and for that, well,…I’m sorry.
Final analysis? I’m not leading anyone toward any sort of light and Goodwill dude had it coming.
I’m headed straight to hell. Come this way…