I Apologize

Say what you want and then apologize. Do what you want and then apologize. I apologize is now the wild card for inappropriate behavior. It's also the get- out- of- jail- free-card for "going along to get along" even if you compromise your beliefs.

How many times has a parent told a child to apologize for some type of infraction. It isn't a true apology. It's something the child says so he can continue to play with his X-Box or so that she won't be grounded and not allowed to drive for two weeks.

Case in point (I'm about to reminisce)
Having a pair of Union Hardware roller skates was a household staple in the 1960’s. Western Auto (no longer in existence) was a popular purveyor of these goods. The good thing about these skates is that they could be lengthened or shortened with the aid of a skate key. That way one pair of skates could be used by more than one person or the same pair of skates could continue to be used as your feet grew. If you lost your skate key, use a pair of pliers.

A lot of female Baby Boomers have scars from skinned knees since most girls rarely wore long pants. Maybe that’s why so many have knee problems or need knee replacements.

On a breezy, fall Saturday I strapped on my roller skates and put a jacket on over my plaid dress. I was looking forward to whizzing down the sidewalk on my roller skates. My goal was to see how fast I could accelerate and then see how far I could coast.
My feet and elbows moved in sync forming a rhythm. I smoothly raised my foot when I got near the uneven sidewalk slab in front of the Z’s (not their real name) house. Skillfully, I’d hop off the curb of one sidewalk and onto the next while still coasting. The fluid sway of skating had me blissful. I was in the zone.

That is, until HE came outside and began taunting me.
I lost my rhythm, forgot about the crack in the sidewalk, tripped and fell.
As I prepared to kiss the concrete sidewalk, my plaid dress flew up over my head displaying my floral, cotton panties. Not only that, I hurt my knee bad enough for the blood to trail down my leg. ( If the blood drools down your leg it's considered serious when you're a child)YZ screamed in amusement. He hooted and jeered as I sat on the sidewalk crying, examining my knee and mostly embarrassed.

He came closer pointing at me and doubling over in laughter. He nagged in song, “I saw your panties, I saw your panties, I saw your panties . This only added insult to injury. I picked myself up still crying and wiping my runny nose on my jacket sleeve. I began limping off like a tail tucked dog. He followed behind me continuing to heckle and that’s when I heard it.

An angry, booming voice called, “YZ, COME HERE! NOW!”
It was YZ's Daddy, Mr. Z.
I don’t know what Mr. Z said to YZ but when the two of them walked over to me YZ had tears in his eyes.
Mr. Z looked at my knee with concern (he knew it was nothing but he was nice enough to pretend it was) and gave me advice on how to care for it when I got home. (Wash with soap and water, put on Mercurochrome and a band aid)
He then turned to YZ and told him to apologize to me.

A few days later I went outside. As soon as YZ saw me in the front yard he began to smirk.Moral of my Story: Forced, insincere apologies are useless.


THAT'S IT***