Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word

According to Elton John, sorry seems to be the hardest word. But not for me. I don't think too much apologizing means I'm not confident or I have low self-esteem or any of the other tags given to over-apologizers. I also don't think it means I'm always at fault or excessively mean. I say I'm sorry when I do something I wish I hadn't done. (Or in the case of not having chocolate chip cookies when you stop by, for something I wish I had done).

I find it hard not to ask for pardon if I'm late, I've misunderstood, I've forgotten something or I have to cancel an appointment. I think things that have the tiniest negative effect on someone else deserve at least a small apology. And if I realize I've made someone sad or I've disappointed them (even when I don't feel at fault) I apologize for that, too.

I've been accused of excessive sorries when things aren't perfect. In addition to no chocolate chip cookies I apologize if the dinner isn't great, the bed is uncomfortable, plans don't go as planned and a lot of other things that most of you don't find so important. That doesn't mean I lack confidence, it means I care and I didn't do as well as I'd hoped.

I'd rather be accused of over-apologizing than living my life with the awful taste of those two unspoken words left in limbo behind my lips. I know people who find it impossible to spit them out even when I'm sure they want to. I can see it in their eyes and hear it on the tip of their tongue. To those folks I say I'm sorry because they must leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

Forgive me if I remind you that Elton John didn't say sorry is the hardest word, he said sorry seems to be the hardest word; but the truth is, it really isn't. When the response to an apology is an accepting smile and a Beatles 'let it be', it's enough to leave you speechless. 

Go ahead. You've got nothing to lose but your pride.

 

It's Time to Act

I'm lucky enough to have seen a professional ballet at La Scala in Milan, the Black Swan at its home in Moscow and a Nutcracker or two in Chicago, but nothing compares to what I call the '4-H Fair of dance' in a small town in Italy.

Last week's show was called Il Bel Paese (The Beautiful Country). The music was Italian, they used Vespas for props and the stage was lit with the red, white and green stripes of the flag (which always reminds me more of Christmas than Italy). I chose a seat in the last row of the balcony. It was hot and I wanted to be alone so I could uncross my legs and fan myself with the unevenly-folded, photocopied program the ballerina had handed me at the door.  

Like a proud parent, I always take videos and enthusiastically share them the next day with the same friends that have no interest in coming with me; the ones that have kids and ask why I'd go to a dance recital if I didn't have to.

The ballerinas come in all shapes and sizes and the bigger ones are never hidden in the back. Short-haired, pudgy ones get the same stage time as thin ones with buns. The audience 'aws' at the tiny ones in tu-tus and applauds those not quite on their toes in toe shoes. But this year the loudest cheers came for the four boys that wore baggy pants in the hip-hop routine and black tights and t-shirts to the arias of Andrea Bocelli.

In the glow of the Christmas lights I looked at the sea of heads separating me from the stage and wondered what thoughts were swimming in the minds of the small-town dads, grandpas and brothers watching the spettacolo (show). I'm sure there were some wannabee-dancers envious and proud of those four courageous boys doing what they really want to do.

If my students don't have homework I try to get them to talk about life. When I ask the guys about their dream job they usually hem and haw. Then, I fill in the blank with a professional soccer player and finally get an embarrassing nod. Next time, the open-minded, non-judjmental (albeit a little slow) teacher will be smart enough to fill in that blank with a professional soccer player OR a dancer.

Getting back to the question of why I go if I don't have to; because doing things you don't have to might remind you that all the world's a stage and you're free to pick the role you want. So, if you're tired of being a spectator and applauding someone else for something you'd like to be doing, it's time to grab your dancing shoes (or paintbrush or pen) and start performing.

When 7-Eleven became 24-Seven

For the first 30 years of my life I thought cheese was orange; Cheez Whiz, cheese curls, mac 'n' cheese, individually wrapped Kraft slices and bricks of Velveeta. Then came my love affair with parmesan; you know, the white cheese that comes out like little balls from a green bottle with a shaker spout, which I now buy as a giant wedge wrapped in butcher paper. 

It's finally dawned on me that whether cheese is orange, white or blue, the real reason I eat it is because it's convenient. I open the fridge, I cut it (sometimes) and I eat it. There's no cooking (vegetables) or peeling (fruit) or spreading (peanut butter and Nutella). It's even easier than a square of chocolate that has to be carefully cracked on that little indentation so the other chocolate eaters in the house aren't disgusted by your teeth marks.

After a lifetime of cheese eating, I've finally realized it's a habit of convenience. And fortunately, I've also realized it's a bad one. I accept 50 million extra grams of fat and possible high cholesterol and a heart attack just because I'm too lazy to cut off the tops of strawberries, wash them and put them in the blender (the only way I don't have to gag them down). But as more friends have bad blood tests and my body has more bulges, I'm reconsidering strawberries. And I'm also considering other times taking the easy way out might not be the best choice for me (or you).

Fortunately, I don't succumb to a lot of conveniences. But if you do, here's a friendly reminder of some things that might be missing in your life because their alternatives seem easier:

walking or riding your bike (it beats driving), wearing natural fabrics even if you have to iron them, sending a card instead of a text, going out for a movie instead of watching Netflix, popping popcorn on the stove like your grandma used to, turning real pages in a book, meeting a cute shopkeeper instead of shopping online, the warmth of a wool sweater and not a fleece, sleeping in a sleeping bag in a tent instead of a bed in a camper and lots of other things that you haven't done for years.

There's nothing wrong with convenience if it really makes you happy. But if you squirmished a bit when you read that list, maybe you should consider reliving the old days from time to time. 

7-Eleven used to think it was convenient to serve its customers from 7am to 11pm. And then one day they decided offering another 8 hours would make our lives even easier. I think before you take the full plunge into the easy life, you should analyze its gains and losses. And take an extra second to ask yourself if you really even like cheese.

If Clothes Make the Man, Put on a Party Dress

Shoot me if I ever go shopping for clothes to stay home in. The clothes I'm home in are the same clothes I'm out in. They're the ones I remove when it's time to put on my pajamas. And if there's a day I don't leave home (for instance, if I'm throwing up) I just stay in my pajamas.

I don't get why you need specific clothes to be at home. If I'm painting, I wear painty clothes that remind me of all the other times I've been painting. If I'm using cement to attach broken dishes to my mosaic stairs, I have a baggy pair of holey jeans that I can't wear out anymore. When I'm cooking (which is about as rare as throwing up) I wear an apron. And if I'm doing any of my other favorite things that don't include lying on the sofa or watching TV, I feel just fine in my normal clothes.

That's why I laughed the other day when, with thirty minutes between a play and dinner, my friend said we had just enough time to go shopping for some new clothes to stay home in. I've bought my share of running clothes, school clothes, work clothes and dressy clothes, but I've never spent a dime on 'home clothes'.

If I'm at home and for some reason I think it's necessary to save my 'good clothes', I change into something bad. These undesirables include a favorite wool sweater with a tiny moth hole, an old plaid shirt that's so long if tucked in it makes my butt look big and a giant pair of boyfriend jeans that in addition to rolling up the cuffs three times I have to roll down the waistband. These are my home clothes. I didn't have to go shopping for them.

I've asked an Italian friend if they use the phrase, 'shoot me if...' and he told me they say 'kill me if....' but he assured me I'd be understood in any case. So, if you ever catch me out buying clothes to stay home in, shoot me or kill me before I make the purchase. I want to be sure I'm never caught dead in stay-at-home-clothes I've actually gone shopping for.
 

It's about the coffee, not the talk

I remember two things about my childhood house; the address (15 Dean Street) and ladies coming over for coffee. They used to sit in the kitchen with my mom and I imagine they talked about stuff like curlers and tv trays. If the company (we didn't say guests in West Michigan) wanted tea or 'pop' instead of coffee, it made no difference. The morning was meant for slow sips and refills .  

Last week a ski lift operator invited me to grab coffee on his break and I told him I didn't drink coffee. He said that's not what he meant and I knew that's not what he meant, but the truth is, if you accept an invitation for un caffe' (an espresso everywhere else in the world) you can only drink un caffe'. Consuming anything else takes too long.  

Grabbing a (tiny) cup of coffee in Italy is all about the coffee and not at all about the talk. Of course we have real coffee dates, too; the ones where you actually take off your coat and nurse a cappuccino or (like me) an extra hot milk with cocoa. I never say no to those invites. It's the drink-a-cup-of-coffee-in-20-seconds-invitations that I feel I must decline.

I've asked my adult students what I can order and they had lots of answers; hot tea (which means they didn't understand the question), cold tea (ditto), hot chocolate (much more expensive than the coffee I was invited for) and orzo (soluble barley that's defintely not my cup of tea).  

I'm starting to think that the only thing you can throw back with the same passion and speed as an Italian coffee is a shot of grappa. Must I choose the lesser of two evils? Or will the askers accept leading me to water without forcing me to drink?

 

Risky Business

My walks and runs are filled with secrets; things I pretend are just for me. Take the place in the woods where I go to the bathroom the days I walk so much I can't make it home. When I pass with a fellow walker they have no idea I watered that grass the morning before. My inactive friends don't know how many steps there are to the church on the hill or that they are divided into 12 sets of 9. And no one has more curiously controlled the decaying carcasses of a giant toad with a toadlet on its back than I have.

On my walk through town there's an unfinished condominium and parking lot where they'd left a low curb for many years. If you tried to walk on it you either fell onto the shoulder of the street or onto an empty space waiting to be planted or paved. It wasn't a high, wide wall where you'd be hurt if you fell off, but rather a short, narrow curb. It was my urban balance beam.

I couldn't pass that challenge without jumping up and attempting the length at high speed. I like to think the lady in the brick house across the street spied on me through the holes in her lace curtains. She'd have seen me spin my arms and wobble to find my balance, but seldom fall. Maybe she applauded my improvement the same way I check on her tiny, potted cacti for signs of growth; both secretly part of the other's life.

Unfortunately, the parking lot has been finished. Now one side of the curb still falls to the street, but the other has been planted with a strip of grass and stretch of sidewalk. It's become a curb like any other and now lacks the appeal of a death defying feat on my morning walk.   

In reality, the width and height haven't changed a bit. It should be just as challenging to stay on the mini-concrete ledge with or without the grass. But, it's different. Now I do it more easily at a higher speed, with no wobbling and no satisfaction. The risk of falling to the shoulder of the street still exists, but the safety of the soft, green grass on the other side has removed the thrill. 

We get our personal highs in different doses. I don't have to climb a frozen waterfall to find mine, but apparently a balance beam 7 inches off the ground with only one dangerous side isn't quite enough. My risks might be a nightmare to one and a walk in the park to another, but they're mine and I can take the ones I want.

I don't know the right age for a toad to cross the road by itself, but had they crossed independently, maybe one (or both) would have made it to the other side.  


 

Let Things Go

I started 2026 with a glittery thumbnail. Nearly three months later I'm still haunted by a tiny, shiny piece seemingly hanging on for life.  

I won the nail polish in a Bingo game at a New Year's Eve party. Lots of things aren't my middle name, but Glittery Nail Polish is even less probable than most. Even so, in honor of new things in the new year I quickly painted my thumb before exchanging the polish with the little girl who had so disappointedly won the travel tissues.

I thought about using polish remover after the first chippy week, but I decided I wasn't ready to lose it completely; it was more than just a painted nail. Anyway, if my thumb isn't at just the right angle I can't see it; and I don't think anyone else can either. So, I've chosen to let it live until it dies. I just didn't think it would hold on this long. 

Everything needs light to shine; tiny chip included.  So the tragic discovery of its loss won't happen in the dark. (At least I'll be spared sobbing myself to sleep.) One wiser than I would cease the incessant checking to see if it's still with me; making the transition from living with to living without a bit smoother. But that's one wiser than I.  

It would be nice if some day while thumbs-upping something positive in my life I'd look down and find the shimmer gone. "Bingo", I'd cry. (Or, Bingo. I'd cry.)  That tiny piece has always been the last glimmer of hope for a happy new year. But when it finally falls I'll consider it the lost glimmer and try to get on with 2026. I keep reminding myself all that glitters is not gold. But on those days that I forget, at least I have the travel tissues.