“That was mean, Mom.”
The day had been rough emotionally. I’d already spent hours suppressing tears (with marginal levels of success) and my emotional state was precarious at best. Lance, Miles, Grace and I were walking through the Exhibit Hall at the Weber County Fair when I paused to examine a plant displayed on a table. “Look,” I showed Lance, “there is a pineapple growing on it.”
Mid-sentence a zealous woman wearing a green volunteer vest darted up and, interrupting us, said, “Please don’t touch the exhibits. People have worked really hard to grow these.”
I was blindsided. I had not touched the plant. I hadn’t really even come close to touching it. I stammered a lame “But I wasn’t touching it” and backed away from the plant while she, the vigilant volunteer, returned to her seat.
Flabbergasted, dumbfounded, and a bit embarrassed, I also allowed myself to feel a bit angry. Who was she—the self-righteous little whippersnapper—to judge me so unjustly?
Complaining about her to Lance fed my anger and, as I walked around the tables looking at sweets, the anger grew bitter. Her audacity chaffed and my attitude became raw.
We rounded a corner, approaching the plant display from another angle. Miles saw a plant that amazed him and beckoned me, “Come look!” In a voice loud enough for the volunteer (as well as anyone else who was anywhere close) to hear, I said caustically “Don’t touch the plant! Someone worked hard to grow that!! In fact, don’t even get near it. BACK AWAY!”
Oh dear.
“That was mean, Mom,” Miles said. He was right. I had been mean. Very petty. Very shallow. And very mean.
As we walked the perimeter of the building, looking at the displayed quilts, I tried to justify my actions—she was out of line, I had been unjustly judged, anyone who knew the situation would understand—and failed. I had crossed the line.
My conscience started to beat up on me and I knew the plummeting would continue until I apologized. Figuring that my life would be much easier in the long run if I just “bit the bullet”, so to speak, and apologized there than if I had to try to track the volunteer down after the fair (I could just see myself making phone call after phone call trying to find contact information for a person whose name I did not know and whose features I was trying to forget…), I walked up to her and said “I am sorry for the way I acted. I should not have reacted that way.”
My voice was monotone—at that point I could not conjure warmth—but I had said it. Apology given. Conscience appeased. Done….almost.
Hoping to mitigate the damage caused by my bad example, I said to Grace and Miles “I want you to know that I apologized to that woman.”
“I knew you would,” responded Grace.
Oh my lands. OH MY LANDS!
Gratitude swept away all the lingering ugliness of the experience. I am SO grateful for a prickling conscience that forced me to do what I did not want to.
“I knew you would.”
wow.
The day had been rough emotionally. I’d already spent hours suppressing tears (with marginal levels of success) and my emotional state was precarious at best. Lance, Miles, Grace and I were walking through the Exhibit Hall at the Weber County Fair when I paused to examine a plant displayed on a table. “Look,” I showed Lance, “there is a pineapple growing on it.”
Mid-sentence a zealous woman wearing a green volunteer vest darted up and, interrupting us, said, “Please don’t touch the exhibits. People have worked really hard to grow these.”
I was blindsided. I had not touched the plant. I hadn’t really even come close to touching it. I stammered a lame “But I wasn’t touching it” and backed away from the plant while she, the vigilant volunteer, returned to her seat.
Flabbergasted, dumbfounded, and a bit embarrassed, I also allowed myself to feel a bit angry. Who was she—the self-righteous little whippersnapper—to judge me so unjustly?
Complaining about her to Lance fed my anger and, as I walked around the tables looking at sweets, the anger grew bitter. Her audacity chaffed and my attitude became raw.
We rounded a corner, approaching the plant display from another angle. Miles saw a plant that amazed him and beckoned me, “Come look!” In a voice loud enough for the volunteer (as well as anyone else who was anywhere close) to hear, I said caustically “Don’t touch the plant! Someone worked hard to grow that!! In fact, don’t even get near it. BACK AWAY!”
Oh dear.
“That was mean, Mom,” Miles said. He was right. I had been mean. Very petty. Very shallow. And very mean.
As we walked the perimeter of the building, looking at the displayed quilts, I tried to justify my actions—she was out of line, I had been unjustly judged, anyone who knew the situation would understand—and failed. I had crossed the line.
My conscience started to beat up on me and I knew the plummeting would continue until I apologized. Figuring that my life would be much easier in the long run if I just “bit the bullet”, so to speak, and apologized there than if I had to try to track the volunteer down after the fair (I could just see myself making phone call after phone call trying to find contact information for a person whose name I did not know and whose features I was trying to forget…), I walked up to her and said “I am sorry for the way I acted. I should not have reacted that way.”
My voice was monotone—at that point I could not conjure warmth—but I had said it. Apology given. Conscience appeased. Done….almost.
Hoping to mitigate the damage caused by my bad example, I said to Grace and Miles “I want you to know that I apologized to that woman.”
“I knew you would,” responded Grace.
Oh my lands. OH MY LANDS!
Gratitude swept away all the lingering ugliness of the experience. I am SO grateful for a prickling conscience that forced me to do what I did not want to.
“I knew you would.”
wow.
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