Wednesday, September 27, 2006

What the Hell is Wrong with Me?

Today on my way home from work, I started thinking about how, in the seventh grade, I didn't do this really big French project for class. We were given our instructions and the due date on the first day of class because it was a big project and we were to be working on it for a really long time.

I didn't tell my parents because I didn't want to be hounded about it all the time and I figured I'd pull something together in the last week, as was my custom.

Well anyway, I didn't do it. I don't know why I didn't do it; there wasn't any real reason. By the time I was a week away, I couldn't figure out how to ask my parents for help, seeing as I'd never told them about this big old thing. So I just sort of made a pile of papers that looked like it could be a French project and handed that in, sort of thinking that I could still pull it together and by the time my teacher noticed I could have something real...but still, I didn't do anything.

So, naturally, my teacher made me call my mom and tell her what I had done. I'll never forget how when she heard my voice in the middle of the day, she sounded so kind and worried. I think she must have thought I was sick or that something bad had happened. And then I had to tell her that I'd gone and done this idiot thing (and believe me, this was not the only time) and dissapoint her.

So I was thinking about this on my way home from work today and I just
started crying. I kept hearing her voice and feeling terrible and wishing I could apologize.

Of course, this was 18 years ago.

I used to have a similar memory of my dad when I was little. I had learned at school how to carefully peel a leaf from a clover and hold it together with another clover to make it look like a four leaf clover. I did it out in the yard and told my dad it was a four leaf clover. He was so happy for me. I felt terrible when I had to show him it was fake. Up until a few years ago, that could still make me cry.

Once for Christmas or something, I wrote letters to my parents, each with a list of things they'd done in my life that I wanted to say thank you for. Sometimes I wish I could send a similar apology letter, for fake four leaf clovers and French projects left undone. But then I think, maybe they don't need a list of reasons why I suck.

8 comments:

penelope said...

it's hard being a girl.

Megs said...

I don't know if I'm offended or comforted!! :)

penelope said...

heehee. :)

i meant that to be comforting--while still laughing at the way we are as girls (because i am totally like this, too). can you imagine boys having similar thoughts? there's just no way.

mendacious said...

that or you both have some serious guilt complexes!

Megs said...

You are right...no boy would ever think that. :)

penelope said...

m, i was born with a guilt complex.

but boys are so surface. it must be boring to be one.

penelope said...

oh, and also, i was really just trying to say that it was a good blog post.

i'm shutting up now!

Cue Gal said...

When I was about seven years old, my little sister gave me these tiny little stuffed kittens for a birthday present. They were companion kittens for my toy doll (meant to be the doll's cats, in other words), and something I'd really wanted. But I was feeling mean and spiteful and horrible for whatever reason, and I said something to my sister like I can't believe all you gave me was these dumb kittens.

I am ashamed RIGHT NOW, typing that.

I called her up once when I was in grad school (granted, not the most stable time of my life), crying, to apologize. My sister, naturally, hadn't even remembered that had happpened. In fact, she thought I was probably making it up.

Anyway -- all of that to say, I know EXACTLY what you mean. Sometimes those letters of apology are good, if only for us, and even if we end up burning them in the end to let all of that stuff go.