I apologize…sometimes.

 My husband and I have a good relationship.

That is a stand alone statement. We do. We love each other very much, and we have a specific way of dealing with things when we are angry with each other. We call each other stupid names and try to make each other laugh. Why? Because we hate to fucking be mad at each other, duh.

But I have a confession to make. I hate to apologize. Hate it with every fiber of my being. I will apologize to children and the elderly with no problem. Probably because children are so adorable, and the elderly will die soon and no one will know that I apologized. It’s just so hard to apologize to other adults. Even when It is very clear that I am wrong. I have to work up to it. Do some light eating and a little stretching. A small part of me floats away to Jesus when I have to say I’m sorry to anyone. Especially if they are a gloater. Nothing will get you marked off my friendship bracelet list faster than being a damn gloater after I have apologized.

I understand that this is a serious character flaw, and I’m not proud of it. I mean, I do it…eventually. It’s just, I don’t do it willingly or immediately. That’s probably when most people would like their apologies.

This year, I have decided to change my behavior, and  an opportunity presented itself when I made a complete asshole out of myself. I know, shocking!

My car has three different handles on the side of the driver’s chair that work the seat position. I have always assumed that one specific handle worked the recline function. Some people like to lay down when they drive. I like to sit straight up, at attention just in case someone tries to attack me. Always vigilant. Always prepared.

Well, my seat was not in the proper position when I got in it after my husband drove it, and the handle that I assumed controlled this function was not working when I tried to put it in “bitch, this ain’t a drill” position. I’m also blessed with a surprising lack of patience.

I’m such a catch.

I sent my husband a snarky text about how the seat was basically laying down and the handle was broken, so I couldn’t change the position. His reply to my sass was calm and sedate as he stated he would show me how to work it when I got back to the house. I flounced around like the angry toddler that I was and flung myself in the car and drove home. Sure that he was going to be wrong. He magically put my car in position while I was putting things away. I came back outside. Didn’t say thank you, and got in it. I had to leave again.

This time the seat was actually leaning forward, and I was so pissed that I pulled over and was trying to fix it while a stream of swear words tore from my lips. I called him. My call was full of accusations of breaking the handle on my seat and knowingly adjusting my seat too far forward…and also being made completely of cat turds.

That got his attention. Not the cat turd comment, but the totally baseless accusation and total lack of appreciation for him moving my seat. Even though it was in the wrong position. Wrong. He was mad. My husband doesn’t normally get mad at me. When he does it’s usually because I’m going out of my way to be an asshole. Like, what we are now referring to as the driver’s seat debacle of 2016.

I get home and he comes outside. I’m angry and he is angry. I have accused him of breaking the handle on my seat with his stupid cat turd hands and he says I’m too stupid to use my car, and will prove it. We open the door of my car, I step aside, and he bends down.

As he does, I’m thinking how awesome it’s gonna be when he has to say he’s sorry for breaking the handle with his stupid sausage hands. All of that smugness vanishes as I see him grab a completely different fucking handle and sarcastically recline my seat all the way back and then sassily lean it all the way forward. Then he turned and looked me dead in the eye, and he knew it and I knew it.

I had been using the wrong fucking handle the whole damn time.

With a smile on his face, I could feel the “I won” radiating from his body. Mine however was oozing the stink of shame as we walked back inside. I was gonna have to do it. I didn’t want to, but I had no other choice. I was wrong and had behaved badly all evening. A huge portion of me wanted to feign diarrhea and just run to the bathroom and stay there all night, but he wasn’t expecting an apology. That was worse. He was expecting me to pretend I had diarrhea or pretend it didn’t happen and just walk back into the house.

I took a deep breath, and apologized. Then I hugged him. He froze. Probably wondering if I had a weapon to stab him in a murder/suicide type scenario. After realizing he was in no danger of being stabbed to death in a crime of apology shame his body relaxed. It would have been the perfect time to stab him if I was going to murder/suicide due to apology shame, but it was fine. He had accepted my sorry.

Then he made fun of me. Exactly like I would do to him if he had made such a stupid mistake.

I still may not be as good of a person as my sister, but I’m trying.

I’m also thinking about labeling the handles on my seat.