Day 71 Don’t Be an “I’m-Sorry-Butt”
The Vancouver Sun ran a piece by columnist Susan Schwartz this morning with the header “Apologies Often Remedy the Situation but Timing is Crucial.” A thought-provoking story as I’ve often mourned the demise of apology, blaming it on our increasingly-litigious culture. Politicians and CEOs are famous for this strategy: “Don’t apologize, don’t explain,” in order to avoid an expensive ruling against them. (Now maybe this makes good business and/or political sense. I wouldn’t know. Maybe it’s a male thing. Again, out of my experience pool.)
And thus what should be a simple “I’m sorry” gets mangled into the weasely “Mistakes were made,” or the pompous “I regret that such-and-such occurred” sort of dodging.
Translation: “Mistakes were made… but not by me,” and “I regret that such-and-such didn’t occur on your head sooner… and from the cloaca of a low-flying gull.”
People screw up, it’s a fact. And, except for the sociopaths among us, we feel uncomfortable when we screw up. Lower on the totem-pole of worthiness. Naturally, we want to get rid of the discomfort asap, so our immediate reaction is to pull up the defenses and pour on the effort to deny, deny, deny, as if “I didn’t do it” could magically turn back time.
Of course, if you’re Mennonite, or a woman, or worst of all, a Mennonite woman, you might be prone to saying “I’m sorry” as a matter of course, whether you’ve done a bad thing or not, which swings the pendulum of accountability in the opposite direction, but with no better results.
An insightful therapist once pointed out to me that that phrase “I’m sorry” is completely focused on the offender. Taken to the full Menno-Monty, it goes something like this: “I’m sorry, I’m such a loser, I’m the worst person ever, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I try and I try but I …” (dissolve into racking, mucous-filled tears).
In this Menno-Monty martyrdom scenario, the offender slyly regains power by making themselves appear long-suffering victims of their own baseness and how mean are you to point this out! When in fact they’ve learned to rather enjoy the toasty flames tickling their toes.
In fact, Mennos aside, all the offended parties need is some recognition of their own experience. E.g. “It must have been unpleasant for you when I farted into the oscillating fan just as it swung your way. I’m sorry. I’ll aim away next time.” The offender accepts responsibility, while acknowledging the offended party’s feelings and thereby if he/she is very lucky, avoids being booted out of bed.
Maintaining relationship equilibrium is about balance. Party A takes, Party B gives. Next time around Party B takes and Party A gives. One person offends, acknowledges, apologizes. The other calls foul, accepts apology, forgives. No “you owe me,” or tucking it away in that secret bad-deeds bank account we all have.
It’s the golden rule of screw-ups: apologize unto others as you’d have them apologize unto you, because sooner or later, what hits the fan will originate with you. Politicos and CEOs who can apologize? Gems among men. (Okay, or women, but let’s be real.)
Admitting and forgiving, that’s grown-up work.
No need for lawyers at all.
Day 66 The Colour of Gratitude
My parents are moving to another unit within their condo complex and they’ve asked me to help them redecorate. This is kind of a big deal because, left to their own devices, they’re likely to either go with eggshell white everywhere (because it goes with everything, you know) or be wild and paint all the walls powder blue (to match the tablecloth. And the carpet. And the throw cushions.)
So, to step out of their comfort zone and ask my advice is a tremendous leap of faith – and something of a burden. After all, what do I know? I once painted our whole main floor what I thought was a trendy milk chocolate colour but turned out, in daylight, to be purple.
However, I do enjoy painting. And I love colour, vibrant and bold. My attitude is that you can always paint over it if you don’t like it. (Which actually isn’t always true, as I learned when I painted a seascape in deep (deep, dark) ocean blue in my youngest daughter’s bedroom.)
So I have to balance my opinion and style sensibility, such as it is, against their conservativism and the fact that they intend to live in this place, with these colours, for the rest of their lucid lives. If I choose badly, I’ll be reminded of it every single time I visit. Change is not their strong suit. These are people who still drink from the mismatched plastic tumblers that I remember from my childhood. “And why not?” my father responds. “They still work!”
So today Mom and I went to the paint store, thinking the decorating consultants could help us narrow the field. You know, using smart words like “contemporary” and “complementary” or “saturated hues.”
“Here’s the pillow sham from their bedroom,” I showed the girl at the counter. “And a sample of the flooring they’re installing. The windows face north, so we’re wondering if this grey-blue is too cool or should we go with more earth tones, maybe a cinnamon-rusty brown?”
I held out our short-list of possibilities – minus the powder-blue chip – and awaited her wisdom.
“Either way would work,” she said, looking like a deer in the headlights. “It’s a personal decision, your own preference.”
Not quite as helpful as I’d imagined.
“Oh-kay,” I said, not ready to give up just yet. I held up the two colours we’d come up with but weren’t sure about. “What do you think about a combination of this for the main walls and this for a feature wall? Given the warm tones in the wood floor, and the cool north light? This shade is also in the furniture.”
She glanced down. “Um. Looks good,” she said.
My mother looked at me, panicky with indecision. I took the colour chip from her hand and pointed to the second darkest colour, a lovely, deep blue-grey.
“We’ll take a sample pot of this one.”
“I don’t know,” Mom demurred, her finger hovering over the softer, lighter shade. “Can I be that brave?”
“Yes,” I said. It was a $5 sample. “Go big or go home.”
We also got a tester of a rich butter-creamy colour to contrast with the blue and give the room warmth. We decided to wait on buying paint for the cove and trim. I wasn’t up for torturing over white vs. off-white.
We tried out the colours on the walls as soon as we got back and they look good! My mom is happy, she’s pretty sure my dad will be happy, and I’m relieved Christmas dinner won’t be held in Baby Boy Doe’s bedroom.
No, more than relieved. I’m touched by their trust in me, their desire to have me engaged in their lives, and by their gratitude. It feels good to be so appreciated.
Even for something as relatively insignificant as paint.
Day 59 Why, Why, Why?
It’s one of the first questions a writer learns to ask, so I guess I came to this occupation honestly. I’m obsessed with understanding the “why?” behind stuff. Like rules, for instance. (Which made me a poor fit in my fundamentalist, conservative, evangelical family. I’ve no problem with God, never have had, but “the Bible says…” was never a good enough answer for me. It is, however, the kind of answer that pretty effectively shuts down further questioning.)
Or human behaviour, which is all about “why,” it seems to me. My kids, from infancy on, were so darn interesting. There was always so much going on inside them. I had a problem with the old school method of child-rearing that said badly-behaving children need to be smacked into line, so I always tried to look for reasons. I figured that children, like puppies, want to please the people who care for them. And that when their needs are met, they’re for the most part, pleasant small animals to be around.
But small animals have a lot of needs. Bored, lonely puppies eat furniture. Does that make them “bad?” No. It means that their owners didn’t provide them with sufficient stimulation, exercise, training, etc. Children usually don’t eat furniture, probably because most of them aren’t given the chance, but they can sure exhibit a lot of other unpleasant and destructive behaviours. And it still comes down to unmet needs.
One of my daughters, when she got hungry, was prone to blistering tantrums, that frightened her as much as they did me. Was she “bad?” No, of course not. She was hungry. And that made her scared, and angry. (In the Urban Dictionary vernacular, “hangry.”) We all know how that feels.
Yesterday, in an unexpected turn of events, I barely made it through my yoga class. I had to skip the second rep of most postures and by the end, I was just lying there, gasping, trying not to bolt for the door. Why? As I staggered out I looked at the thermometer and there was my answer: 110 degrees. I’m sorry, you Bikram nuts, but that’s just not right.
Today, despite feeling under the weather, and being a little gun-shy after yesterday, my practice was strong again. Temp: 107. There you go.
Most of the time, things aren’t so cut and dried. Usually, we’ re only vaguely aware of the reasons behind our actions, if we’re aware at all. I doubt very much that individuals get up in the morning, pour themselves a bowl of Cheerios and think, “Today I’m going to be an asshole!” But something happens to make us feel threatened or unappreciated or worthless or impotent or (fill in the blank) and we lash out, or we withdraw, or do whatever we can to build ourselves up, or to dull the pain.
I can’t remember why I started this post, probably because I’m labouring under the fuzzy weight of a persistent headache. (Denge fever? Brain tumour? Lyme Disease?!?) To outsiders – and here I mean men mostly – I probably appear to be one or more of the following: bitchy, grumpy, grouchy, selfish, mad, nursing a grudge, preoccupied, tired, in a “mood,” miserable, someone to avoid, etc.
In fact, I’m not really any of those things. In classic break-up language, “It’s not you, it’s me.” And I have a headache.
I might avoid people because I know I appear to be those other things, plus, I really don’t have the wherewithal to be chipper when I’m trying to avoid loud noises and sudden movements. But it really has nothing to do with anyone else. It’s about my pain. Today, it’s my “why.”
Is this clear? It’s nothing personal. I’ll take a little sympathy, even some TLC if it’s available, but if that’s too much, then please just leave me alone. I’m not having a headache at you.