It’s like “I’m sorry” is burned into my flesh and blood…

Doc: “Lorna, you’ve got the worst case of Apologitis I’ve ever seen.”

Me: “I’m sorry, Doc. It must be awful for you to break news like that to someone you hardly know.”

Doc: “I’m already over it.”

Me: “Oh, good. That makes me feel better. I’m sorry to bother you with this, but what’s ‘Apologitis’ and what’s my prognosis?”

Doc: “It’s the very rare compulsion to apologize for everything and anything, even things out of your control …”

Me (hanging my head): “I’m sorry.”

Doc (rolling his eyes): “Yes, well, there you go. I believe your case is so severe that there’s no cure for you. You can put your bra back on now.”

Me: “Oh, sorry, I probably should have done that earlier.”

Doc: “No problem.”

The above was fictional. But my compulsion to apologize is both legendary and disturbing.

My incurable case of Apologitis first came to my attention about a year ago when I started dating a man who loves me without reservation. Our first tiff went something like this:

Just try to find an Internet picture of a woman eating a banana that isn’t X-rated. I’m sorry, but this was the best I could do and keep it clean!

P: I thought there were some bananas?

Me: No, I’m sorry, I ate the last one today.

P: Oh, I really wanted a banana.

Me (getting teary-eyed): I’m SO sorry. I should have gone to the store…

P: Hey, are you getting upset? Over bananas? I’ll go to the store if I want bananas. Stop crying!

Me (sniffling): I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cry. It’s just that I don’t want to upset you. I’m sorry you’re upset.

P: I’m not upset. Let’s go out to eat. Would you like that?

Me: Sure. I’m really sorry about the banana thing…

P asks me not to apologize. I reflexively apologize and say “I’m sorry” for apologizing. I’m hopeless. Sorry, but it’s true.

Recent examples:

  • My husband left me, he said, because he just couldn’t live with me anymore. I apologized for being so difficult.

    I wasn’t sure what made me so “difficult,” so I apologized and tried to change. It didn’t work.

  • Kamikaze Kat Owner was indignant when I asked for proof that “Grumpy” had been vaccinated against rabies and other common cat maladies like Jungle Fever. He told me he had been, but I wanted to see the papers. He said, “Are you calling me a liar?” I responded, “No! I’m sorry. I wasn’t calling you a liar, I just want to be sure.” He produced the proof.

    Jeez, it wasn’t like I was Dr. Evil asking for 1 million dollars or I’d blow up the world…

  • While at a grocery store, a frenzied female shopper t-boned my cart as I emerged from one of the aisles. She glared at me in silence. While there are no traffic signals nor rules of the road for shopping carts, I’m pretty sure the person who runs into your cart at warp speed is at fault. I tend to saunter around the store and am not known for darting out in front of unsuspecting shoppers. The glaring continued. Finally I said, “I’m sorry.” She huffed, “Well you should be!” She extracted her cart from mine to the sound of metal crunching, and veered off, laying down some rubber (I may be exaggerating a bit–I’m sorry.)

    She was fast. I never saw her coming, but she had plenty of time to see me.

  • I apologize to bugs that splat on my windshield while driving.

    I’m sorry my Yaris ended your brief bug life. I’m really sorry my windshield wipers smeared your body across my field of vision.

  • When I trip over Scrappy because he’s underfoot, I tell him “I’m sorry.”

    I bet he never said “I’m sorry” to the ottoman.

  • If I was going to have a tombstone it would say, “Here lies Lorna, she’s SO sorry she died.”

If I’ve overdone the “I’m sorries,” I really am very sorry. It’s a disease.