So the other day, when a stroller-pushing mother semi-vigorously bumped into me at Sixth Avenue and Eighth Street — this corner is apparently the Bermuda Triangle of manners — I expressed remorse, and added, “No one says I’m sorry anymore, so I do it for them.”
“My idea is that if I say I’m sorry, then at least the words have been released into the universe.”
She stared at me with equal parts irritation and faint horror, as if I had just asked her to attend a three-hour lecture on the history of the leotard.
I continued: “The apology gets said, even if it’s not by the right person. It makes me feel better. And maybe you’ll know what to say next time.”
“Wow,” she said. (The tickets for the leotard lecture were $200, or $500 at the door.)
And then, finally, came the words I have longed these many months to hear: “I’ll think about it.”
I think I will give it a try.
*I promise no more NYT links today I just couldn't help it.