Ohp, Sorry: Why We Say Sorry So Much

Ohp, sorry – were you reading this? Sorry, I was busy writing it. People around the globe have numerous negative perceptions of Americans. Too fat, too rich, too imperialistic, too obsessed with padded, helmet-clad footballers. One thing the world – and especially rude Europeans – will admit is that Americans are polite. We’ve retained some element of please and thank you ma’am, opening the door for ladies, tipping your waitress server, and apologizing in advance via email for any little thing that may or may not occur which may possibly offend you or one of your loved ones in any conceivable way*.

*This paragraph is the opinion of its writer, and not necessarily that of said writer’s employer, city of employment, state of residence, degree-granting university, Facebook friends, fantasy football league commissioner, favorite watering hole bar tender, or any other living member of societies past, present, or future.

The strangest way this politeness manifests is in the overuse of the word “sorry”. Tune yourself into this phenomenon, and you’ll be amazed how frequently and for what such inoffensive and unobtrusive interactions people will audibly apologize.

Take the simple act of people walking, from point A to point B. Point A could be “hallway outside bathroom” and point B could be “in bathroom”. If someone opens the door from point A and another person happens to be coming through the very same door from point B, one or both of those people will say “sorry” and step far to the side, signaling their great shame for having interrupted the other’s run for the border.

Or let’s say point A is the lobby outside an elevator, and more than one person is trying to get to point B: inside the elevator. When those doors slide open, whichever person takes a step forward first will undoubtedly say “sorry” to the other, hesitate, and then create that awkward decision moment where nobody moves and everyone already in the elevator immediately hates both people for being unnecessarily polite. (The elevator is filled with Europeans, clearly.)

Sometimes “sorry” comes out in even less appropriate times, like when someone is about to deliver any measure of clarification, criticism, or request. This often happens in business settings, where it is absolutely necessary and not burdensome whatsoever to clarify, criticize, or request things. The beauty of this “sorry” is that it happens before the person actually says or does anything at all. Apologizing in advance, like in emails! They step forward or use a hand motion to alert you of their sudden mortification: “Sorry, I was just thinking…” or “Sorry, ummm, could you just send that to me in an email so I don’t forget…” Yes, we will do that for you, but only because you displayed such public regret.

“Sorry” doesn’t always emerge alone, though. In fact, many times it’s preceded by a strange grunt – something between an “oops” and an “um” – when someone is surprised and apologetic. It comes out sort of like an “ohp”. Imagine Ted, hurrying down the parking garage stairs less than fully alert, thanks to a recent text from his wife (“hurry home, da buns are n da oven LOL!!!”). He makes the turn and BAM, Janelle is right there heading back up the stairs because she left her laptop on and in the dock with Hugh Jackman’s GQ photo slideshow up.
Ted: “Ohp! Sorry.”
Janelle: “No, sorry. Left my travel mug, heh-heh.”
Ted: “Sorry.”

So, sorry for bringing this to your attention. It may slightly bother – no, sorry – annoy the crap out of you from now on. We don’t say it because we’re actually regretful or remorseful. We’re just so intensely afraid of having any potentially awkward moment of minor confrontation with people going about their everyday business.

I say: let’s embrace it! Next time you’re using the break room microwave and there’s 4:23 left and someone comes in with a Stouffer’s dinner-for-one and that ravenous look in their eyes, don’t say sorry. Don’t even say something like “Ohp, just a few more minutes.” Just stand and stare directly at them with a half-smile until they flinch, then say “Oh, did you need to use the microwave?” And when they say, “Uh, yeah, but I can wait,” just say back to them, “Yeah. You will wait because there’s now 3:08 left, and that’s the way microwaves work.”

That way, the next time they come storming into the break room with a dish of leftover chili and a half-sleeve of saltines, they’ll see you, stop, say “Ohp, sorry,” and they’ll just walk away. No confrontation, apology accepted.

What up

So TheStepDude.com is on hold. I have nary the time for this little blog/journal/column as it is, much less one with much deeper contrivances. I'm giving myself 10- no, 12 sentences to summarize the past month.

1. Our family vacation to greater San Diego with my parents was filled with memorable moments like swimming, sailing, Sea World, a wife's 30-ish birthday, boardwalking, pizza, bad college hoops, an uncle and aunt, 2 cousins, one traumatic kid injury, 3 nights of hacking coughs keeping me awake, fantastic downtown Del Mar restaurants, adjoining rooms with said parents (which we survived...and had fun!), Coronado Island, and a recommended Double Tree in Del Mar.

2. Zoey has recently transformed into a mega-diva thanks to an upcoming dance recital, the recital's costume, the recital's makeup, glitter and hair requirements, the rehearsals, the theme park locale of recital #1, and her natural self confidence.

3. A new fun thing we do is put this hair net, required by Zoey's dance troupe for the uncomfortably tight bun-style hairdo, on Disco Kitty's head while singing, "sloppy joe, slop-sloppy joe".

4. A certain someone who pursues athletic endeavors to combat aging has played two (co-ed lower-tier rec league) softball games, producing several hits and catches and throws and very few trick hamstring developments.

5. A certain Preston in my house has played three soccer games, resulting in many shouts to "run!" and "kick it" and "no really, run!" whilst congratulating him on his new coordinating accessories gear, which includes fancy shin guards and new cleats, which he'll grow out of by Thursday.

6. A certain wife of mine deftly stayed out of my way while I attempted to install the new, "easy self installation" bathroom flooring we purchased from the Home (Cash) Depot-sitory in order to avoid me taking out all my defeatist frustration on her.

7. The floor looks amateurish and less than perfectly square, but constitutes a huge improvement over the state of the floor immediately prior featuring remnant paper backing from the ripped out linoleum.

8. Was that "Home (Cash) Depot-sitory" line a reach?

9. I purchased the MLB subscription from Comcast for $199, justifying, "$25 per sports bar visit to catch out of market game times anything over 8 visits over a 162 game season equals 'it pays for itself!'"

10. If the Tigers don't have a successful season to redeem my dreadful home-team sports year, then I will be forced to pretend I love hockey.

11. Every time I saw the words "Double Tree" at the hotel, I immediately though of

12. I want to full-fist punch that bathroom right in the throat.

A segway [sic] to class discrimination

Whilst travelling for work last month, I viewed a story on CNN about a man whose condo complex was going to deny him the use of his Segway! (If you didn't know, I love dudes riding Segways, especially cops.) Fortunately for all of us, they came to their senses. Initially, the condo management claimed the rolling wonder of physics "endangered lives", but they "failed to prove their case". Apparently, their attempts to throw people in front of the old dude's ride caused nothing but tread burns and husky apologies. Stanley Blumenthal: Jubilant!

In other news, I had several funny moments on a Continental flight from Newark to Chicago a few weeks ago (air travel story...big surprise). Most of you know that many airlines are charging $15 for any checked bag now. And most of the airlines that are charging $15 for a checked bag call it the "first checked bag charge", or simply "checked bag charge". We get it - we're being charged to give you the suitcase which, by law, cannot be taken on the plane with us. Fine.

But not Continental. Continental Airlines not only takes your $15, but they cause you to examine your life and all its mistakes and confusion. The official name for the charge?

"Excess Baggage Fee"

I am not making this up. This fee is not for your 2nd, 3rd, or eleventeenth bag. For your first bag. Your one and only suitcase, maybe. But you should pay for that one suitcase, as it is clearly and in all contrast to proper travel decorum, excessive. And you should be reminded of that fact in print.

"How's that new passenger, Continental? Your relationship growing?"
"Yeah, Delta, I guess so. He's pretty great - sits where he's assigned, always finds an efficient space for his carryon in the overhead compartment, keeps his iPod volume at a respectful level. But he's got some...baggage."

If you peruse Continental's website, the "excess baggage" term simply applied to heavy/oversize bags in the past, and the fine was much more for those indiscretions. But the gadget in their system that applies fees and prints your receipt for you wasn't worth changing, I guess, so your check-in screen and receipt are there to remind you of all the burdens and toiletries you're lugging along in this crazy, mixed up world.

As if this wasn't enough, I then had to endure an actual case of class discrimination by Continental's award winning cabin staff, North America's best. Maybe I was more sensitive to the situation than normal. I was, after all, engrossed in Sinclair's The Jungle, empathetic to Jurgis's unending struggle against the corporate machine and all its political and social injustice. It came down to the one simple amenity that even airlines haven't chopped: The Lavatory. I had patiently waited through some turbulence, and finally the seat belt sign was off. I looked back to the tail of the airplane (I was in row 7, just 5 rows back from the small First Class section) to see a small line gathered near the lavatories - both occupied - as well as the clattering beverage carts being prepared for service. Earlier at the airport, I had downed an afternoon coffee as well as a bottle of water, but was in a hurry-up mode once I reached the gate, and boarded without making a pit stop.

Boldly, I stepped through the curtain separating Coach from the First Class section. And really - do airlines need to patronize us by calling our section "Coach"? Like we're duped into thinking our rigid, leg-roomless, disease-carrying fabric-wrapped seats are some sort of hired transport in the olden days? Anyway, the forward lavatory is clearly empty, and I'm clearly going to use it.

The forward attendant, a foot shorter than I, literally steps in front of me and says, "Sir, would you mind using the rear lavatories?"
"Yes, I would. It's busy and the carts are going to block me anyway."
"No, I see that the carts are still being prepared. You'll have time to get back to your seat."

I really wanted to come up with a smart, sure, even aggressive statement to get by her, but all I mustered was a roll of the eyes and a quick turn. At this point, I noticed my surroundings - a grand total of EIGHT people in this section, all occupied in the Wall Street Journal or sleeping, and one lavatory, vacant. My churning brain did some quick 737 math, and realized there were about 140 people in Coach for the two lavatories there. 8:1 vs. 70:1. This operation would've taken me no more than a minute, and not one of the people would've even noticed!

I shuffled my way down to the rear and, of course, had to step into a vacant seat (whose occupant was in line for the lavatory) to let the beverage cart by. GRRRRRR! And more of coursely, upon my return, had to ask the beverage cart wranglers to push it up a few rows so I could get into my seat. As I was standing there, I shot that forward attendant's eyes the nastiest glance I could generate, which unfortunately appeared to her as nothing but a calming field of blue ice. (nothing I can do about that, right ladies?)

All the fees, fares, taxes, and leg cramps in the world can be explained and even understood by this traveller. But lavatory restrictions based on your seat assignment when all logic and circumstance show a better solution? Sheer madness.

I'd like to apologize for the overuse of links in the first paragraph, especially for a silly story about a Segway, a vehicle which I have never commandeered, despite my distant fascination.

A moral lesson from the can

WARNING: This post contains material of an awkward subject. I would encourage you not to form visual images of me. But since I just said that, I know you will. So enjoy that.

Most public men's rooms have a particular stall layout - one or several skinny, minimum space stalls whose doors open inward, and then one larger wheelchair-accessible (W.A.) stall whose door opens outward. Generally, the W.A. stall is furthest from the door, tucked in a corner. Dudes can be weird about using stalls. Some prefer space and comfort in order to properly relax while some prefer a sort of quiet anonymity, dreading that some other man may be aware that they, too, endure working bodily functions. The W.A. stall can satisfy both preferences, at times.

I was guilty of using the roomier, corner-located W.A. stall at work sometimes, for whatever reason. Regardless, it struck me recently that it would be rude and potentially disastrous if I was occupying said stall at a time when someone who truly needed the clearance and support rail entered the bathroom. This seemingly obvious scenario made its rude entry into my mind while I was using the stand up potty, and a gentleman in our office came in with a walker and two braces on his feet. I knew this man from around the office, but was not aware of his situation on a personal level. Needless to say, I swore a silent oath that I would never use the handicapped stall on this floor, in this building, ever again. It is not for me.

The story doesn't end there. Like I said, I didn't know the man on a personal level. He was gone from the office for quite some time, but I didn't notice. One day, I was playing the bowling video game on my phone (that's what I do when I'm toilet bound), and I hear the men's room door open. Normally, that is followed by footsteps and the familiar sounds of relief, flushing, washing, the auto-towel motor, and annoying small talk about how weird the last employee meeting was. This time, there were no footsteps... but I did see a wheelchair's wheel roll by under the door of my narrow stall. Later that day, I see the man in the wheelchair, and it was that man who previously had two braces on his feet. Now he only had one brace on his feet, primarily because he only had one remaining foot! I find out that the infections that were causing his foot pain and problems had gotten so bad, that amputation was the only remedy.

Thank goodness for the startling epiphany I experienced weeks earlier. Imagine the discourtesy I would have done by occupying the one and only wheelchair accessible stall, that very day, in that very place, denying a man who recently lost his foot the access he needed! Before you judge my description and discussion of the man's unfortunate situation, realize that he had the grace and humor with his new found structure to show up for a pirate-themed employee meeting (see what I mean?) wearing an upside down plunger that was painted black and duct-taped to his knee as a peg leg! AWESOME.

The lesson here is that certain things are in place for a reason. People who need a little extra room, a little closer space, a lift, a support bar, whatever - they really need it! And some of us have strange, selfish agendas (like video bowling with more elbow room) that need to be sacrificed for the good of mankind. Bottom line: Don't park in their spaces, and don't s#!t in their stalls.

It says 'sit'- my keyboard had a malfunction...