Stupidity is a close acquaintance of mine.
We see each other often enough to be on a first name basis.
Although I would love to call Stupidity a stalker of mine, I generally warrant and encourage his advances.
I hate messing up – no matter what it is or at what level.
To me life is like crossing a mine field. You’ve taken five cautious and trembling steps forward without being blown up and you get a little cocky. Of course the next two steps are also uneventful, so you take a giant stride forward. Only this time when your foot goes down, you and everything around you blows skyward in a slow torturing motion.
You land face first in s*** back at square one.
So lucky to be alive, and yet you wish you were dead as you pull your face out of the s*** and see the person you wronged looking down at you.
You painfully crawl to your knees then slowly stagger to your feet hoping for a kick in the seat of your pants although you know you deserve a birth-controlling kick to your crotch.
What can you do?
The heartfelt “I’m sorry” seems so insufficient, and the sincere promises to make it up to them sound so cliche. It seems that all you really can do is prove that you are man enough to take the complete blame and perhaps more importantly, never repeat the offense.
Whether they forgive and hopefully forget, is the unknown variable in this deathly game.
After the deserved or nice kick, if they choose to overlook your bumbling missteps and reach down to help you to your feet, then they are a friend worth keeping close.