The Evolution of Apologies


My wife has given me two great honors. Or perhaps, they are a little dubious. She says I am the most impatient person in the world. Not in the city, state, or country, but the whole world. Additionally, she has deemed me the king of apologies. With a tremendous deal of hard work and ridiculous behavior, this stature didn’t come as that much of a surprise.

I began sincere apologies probably at the age of ten. That was when I ruined a new shirt while in a fight with one of my older brothers’ friends. Although I didn’t start the fight, the verbal abuse this boy was tossing at me, like a 95 mile an hour fastball, just made me blow a fuse. So, when my mother made be apologize for not using my constitutional right of “Sticks and Stones may break my bones…..” you know the rest, I apologized to both her and the friend.

As the years passed, I went on to apologize frequently to administrators at school for heinous crimes such as spitting on the ground during recess. That landed me in the office, but it seemed the principal thought it would be a waste of his time to punish me. I was paroled immediately.

Giving a “high five” during P.E., after hitting a home run sent me to the office as well. Perhaps, I was just too excited. This was the fifth grade, and apparently, my friend hadn’t experienced pain and excitement at the same moment. He cried, and I was sent to the Warden of Puberty. (He was a good guy.) I sort of rolled my eyes with this apology, thus kicking me down a notch on the contrite apology meter of life. Rolling his eyes as well, the principal’s punishment: “Don’t hight five too hard.”

Fast forward to high school. I don’t remember apologizing for much until seventeen years of age. I was guilty of trespassing on property. I do remember apologizing to the police officer who provided the ticket. It wasn’t so much the trespassing part, but I was driving one of the tractors on the premises. Presiding in juvenile court, (what a dream) my father and mother stood by me. The judge was shaking his head.”Will you try not to make any ridiculous choices again?”


“Please the court, give this young man 10 hours of community service.”

I’m also hell at thank yous! I thanked the judge for not sending me to Alcatraz.

While doing my 10 hours of hard time at Goodwill in Spokane, Wa, home of the most sinister criminals, and International House of Pancakes, I was told I wasn’t folding clothes properly.


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