When Elton John sang, “Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word” he was, of course, right. It’s true, I’m terrible at it and avoid having to say it as if it were the plague. My husband, who gets more apologies from me than anyone else on the planet (still not many, though) will attest to that.
I’ve even gone so far as to have mastered the “backhanded apology”. As in: ” I’m sorry that you made me get so angry with you.” You see what I did there, right? It’s a practiced skill, much like The Art Of Being Vague is. Even I can see that that is so fricking annoying, but I can’t stop myself. Sor— just kidding, I’m not.
But, alas, I must add another skill fail to my repertoire. Yes, yes, I wrote “skill fail”.You see, I can admit, as much as I seem to brag and even give instruction on the aforementioned, I do realize that they are skill fails. Ones that I just happen to make a science of, and therefore turn into successes. So there.
So, this not-so-new skill fail that I am acknowledging is my inability to ask for ‘Help’. Help, people, is the second (if not equally) most difficult word to say. At least, if you are me, it is. I’ll never be heard singing along in earnest to this:
I think I quite literally shudder at the thought of asking anyone for help. Example? Sure: I was just in Florida, flew solo (that story is here) which I hate, by the way, and knew that there’d would be one day of the trip where I’d be on my own. I’d decided to check out a place called Rainbow Springs, rent a kayak and enjoy the scenery. Well, long story short, I got lost- technically, not my fault because there were three separate entrance locations and my GPS only had two listed. I drove around for at least an extra 45 minutes, hoping to find it, rather than have to call the place for, wait for it…. help. The worst part was that I was only 15 minutes away the whole time. Why, why wouldn’t I just fricking call the place from the get go? I don’t know, I really don’t.
I’e analyzed it in the past- trying to figure out when and why this affliction came to be. I know this much: it dates back to childhood, and is somehow connected to my distaste for feeling embarrassed or, gasp, stupid. I’ve always had this feeling that everybody else knows what’s going on, and I’m the only one who doesn’t. And, I’m supposed to know, right? I mean, that’s how I perceived it, at least. Everyone always seemed so sure, so confident. And me? I was just wandering around like, huh? I decided to always fake it; pretend like I had answers, knew where I was going, what I was doing. I was not going to look stupid in front of anyone, ever. Who remembers the days where you had to pull out encyclopedias, dictionaries, and use the libraries’ card catalog to get information? I was pulling those things out constantly.
Of course, it didn’t always work out that way, I’d get caught out and mortified, and then dwell on it for years. Not kidding, I can remember instances of embarrassment (due to lack of knowledge/understanding) with clarity whether they happened last week or thirty years ago in some asbestos and lead paint laden classroom of old.
So you see, I can’t ask for help. Not without trying everything possible to avoid it first, that is. Do you know (of course you don’t- just a figure of speech) that when I was about 7 or 8, we- my family- we spent a lot of time at the town’s tennis club (sounds more elite than it was, trust me) my brother was playing in a tournament, my parents were up in the lounge area, and I ran all over the place. There was a playroom for the young kids there, but I had mostly outgrown it- except for the Light Bright and the Sit & Spin, it was all babyish- so I made a game of being an invisible secret agent. My mission? Get a can of roasted almonds from the lounge.
Yah, I dreamed big, right? Anyhow, I accomplish my mission: take the can off bar counter, unseen, un-noticed. Remove plastic cap, check. Lift aluminum tab, peel back aluminum lid. Harder that I’d thought it would be, mom always did it for me. I readjust my grip, and then: slice. My middle finger slid across the exposed sharp edge, and at first, as I stared at the paper thin line, nothing happened. But then, a bead of shockingly red blood begins to form, quickly followed by a flow.
Here’s where, I think, most kids would take the 15 steps to their parents, crying for help, and for pain. Me? I run down the stairs, head right to the playroom’s single stall bathroom, shut the door and begin wrapping my bloody finger in toilet paper, willing it to stop, just stop bleeding. This went on for at least half an hour, wads of bloody toilet paper getting flushed down the toilet at intervals. It wasn’t stopping, I was panicking, but still unwilling to get help. Finally, tournament has ended, my mother comes searching for me. I had no choice but to open the door and show her what happened. An emergency room visit and two stitches later, we were home. I, of course, was admonished for not telling them right away.
So, yes, I would rather bleed out, than ask for help. These days, I thank God for the internet is all I can say. I solve almost every question or concern I may have all from the comfort of my keyboard (or touch pad, or voice command…). I know that I’m not alone in that, though.
I have hundreds of such stories that demonstrate my faulty wiring, but I won’t bore you with them all at once. Just thought I’d share this one for those of you that can relate. We’re a strange bunch, people. And, hey, for those of you who can’t: how on earth do you do that?
