The Apology Reflex (and Other Existential Crises of Middle Age).

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You know what I’ve learned? Apologising is like taking a punch to the ego while someone films it in slow motion. You don’t want to do it, you know you should, and when you finally do, it feels like you’ve just admitted to being the dumbest idiot in the room.

 says I'm emotionally constipated. Couldn’t say “sorry” if it came with a free beer. She’d be like, “You never admit you’re wrong!” And I’d say, “That’s because I’m not wrong, I’m just less right than usual.”

But age does something to you. It softens you. Not in a good way, like a nice brie. More like a banana left in the sun. You start apologising for things you didn’t even do. “Sorry, I looked at you funny.” “Sorry, I breathed too loudly.” “Sorry, I exist in your general vicinity.”

And the worst part? You start apologising to inanimate objects. I bumped into a chair the other day and went, “Oh, sorry mate.” A bloody chair! I’m one step away from writing a heartfelt letter to the toaster for burning my crumpet!

But here’s the point. Once you learn to say sorry, people expect it all the time. It’s like opening the floodgates of guilt. You apologise once and suddenly you’re the designated remorse machine. “Say sorry to the dog.” “Say sorry to the neighbour.” “Say sorry to the plant you forgot to water.” What’s next? “Say sorry to the moon for not appreciating its glow?”

I’ve changed. I apologise now. Not because I’m wrong. Not because I’ve grown. But because it’s easier than arguing, and I’m too bloody tired to fight about why the dishwasher should be loaded like a game of Tetris.

Sorry, not sorry. Actually... no, wait—sorry. See? I’m learning.


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