Too Many "I'm Sorries"
Lisa had a remarkable combination of gifts in her dealings with others. She could undefensively choose herself at times when others did not, and recognize her own value. And in times when she was not under siege, she had a staunch inclination to place others’ needs either in front of her own or close beside them.
Seymour found it flagitious that so many of his friends seemed reluctant to learn new words.
It is especially hard in relationships to forgive someone who is almost unwaveringly good natured. Altercations and the release of seething pressure are often necessary so that balance can be shaken, then restored. But where is the satisfaction in feeling that the necessary disruptions are always your fault?
Lawrence had arrived, for the hundredth time in his long life, at the ever-pertinent realization, “What does it matter what other people think and say about you?” And for at least a day or two, he would confidently assert “Nothing at all.”
It had been a day of too many "I'm sorries" from Wilbur. Perhaps there was a rhythm to his compulsive expressions of remorse, going back to the household in which he was not so much brought up as squeezed down, by the commanding force of his adoptive mother, Marguerite, a fanatical Evangelical Christian, and Hammond, her biological grown up son and fellow abuser. But let us pass on without further reference to that long ago gauntlet of lashing and mortification. Today Wilbur began by saying "I'm sorry" to the roller skate he accidentally stepped on in the garage that caused him to slip and fall. Possibly his nearby car heard him and understood. While driving in that vehicle, which he had named "Old Betsy" after Davy Crockett's rifle, he said "I'm sorry" as audibly as he could to the driver behind him, who rapped on his horn loudly after Wilbur hesitated too long before making a left turn. In his coffee shop visit he was swift to apologize to the person he had mistakenly stood ahead of in line, and who issued a sharp reprimand. At work he said "I'm sorry" twice for arriving at a group meeting a minute late and being too slow getting to the point when making his report. He said "I'm sorry" in the cafeteria with profuse embarrassment for yelping after biting his tongue. And, most oafishly of all, he resorted to this mildewed, inadequate phrase when he stumbled and fell into the lap of an elderly man in a towel in the steam room at the gym. That night, after getting home, exhausted and emotionally in knots, he exploded at his own young son, Buddy, and gave him a short spanking, which his transgression probably didn't warrant. Some pressure within him to say "I'm sorry" was successfully resisted. In part he held back because he didn't want Buddy to associate him with those words, and imitate it. "I'm sorry" could easily become a lifelong infection.