Saying those special words

Who's Sorry Now?

By Rick Horowitz

I'm sorry.

So sorry.

Please accept my a-pol-o-gy.

We read this morning from the Gospel According to Brenda Lee. Brenda Lee may not have said it first, but she surely said it best, decades ago. The music accompanying her didn't hurt, of course. The voice -- that firefly-with-a-power-pack voice -- certainly didn't hurt. But it was the words that did it. Once you've said "I'm sorry" the way Brenda Lee said "I'm sorry," there's no need for more.

That's just the problem. In fact, two problems.

Problem No. 1: Saying it.

English is not a language that falls trippingly off the tongue the way some languages do. But it's not Finnish either; you don't sound like there's a baby herring swimming around your epiglottis half the time. Nor is it one of those African languages with random clicking noises thrown in here and there. (Random to me, that is; I don't doubt that the Africans in question know what they're doing, and when, and why, even when they start sounding like party favors gone berserk.)

It's a fairly pronounceable language, all in all, English is. But with the possible exception of one or two other phrases ("I love you" and "Please go" come to mind), there are few English words more difficult to say than these: "I'm sorry/So sorry/Please accept my apology."

The lockjaw sets in at an early age.

"Now, Joey, you give Mary back her GoBot and tell her you're sorry you grabbed it away from her."

"Sry."

"I don't think she heard you."

"Sorr..."

"You can do better than that."

"I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY! NOW WILL YOU LEAVE ME ALONE?!"

"You don't have to shout!"

And so on.

I'd like you to know that saying "I'm sorry" gets much easier as you grow into adulthood. I'd like you to know it, but it's malarkey. We may be talking roses instead of GoBots, or someone may be grabbing for even bigger stakes -- affection, respect, a fun-filled Saturday night. But far too often, when you've done harm, or been done harm, and "I'm sorry" would make things just a little bit easier to bear, the magic words suddenly act like magic words.

They disappear.

Problem No. 2: Saying it, and no more.

Even Brenda Lee kept talking -- but then, she had the entire side of a record to fill. Quitting after just three lines would have been impractical. But what's your excuse? If you've actually managed to say "I'm sorry" when that was precisely the thing to say, why can't you leave well enough alone? Does all that other stuff absolutely have to follow in its wake?

"I'm sorry, but nobody told me that..."

"I'm sorry, but everybody else..."

"I'm sorry, but what about when you..."

You're still looking for an out. That's not an apology -- that's a plea. You don't like squirming (who does?), when squirming is lots of what apologizing is all about; if you didn't do so bad, you wouldn't feel so bad. No doubt about it, when they wrote the very first "Somebody-Done-Somebody-Wrong" song, squirming was the dance they did to it.

Saying "I'm sorry," and not much more than "I'm sorry" -- it's all part of the Grandmaster Test in Interpersonal Relations. Can you pass? And is passing enough? Not always, it turns out. Do you say the right words of apology, and bite your tongue once you've said them -- and still find yourself at full boil for the rest of the day? Maybe you wonder, "What's she getting so upset about anyway?" You think, "How dare he make me feel so guilty!" You vow, "She may forgive, but I won't forget!" You swear, "I -- "

Must have lost my head for a second. I don't know what got into me.

Sorry.