5 things that are not my fault
...and for which therefore, I will neither apologize, nor explain myself ... nor sit on the naughty step.
A question.
Do women, apologise more than men? Do we take on more responsibility, and then assume more fault when whatever we’ve taken responsibility for, goes wrong or fails to materialise, or just fails?
The answer to this is so obvious, it reminds me of another question, one that my creative writing tutor asked in my first year at university: Do men and women write differently?
The young students surrounding me were unanimous in their response. No! Three times no, there’s no difference! You wouldn’t be able to tell! One young woman went further, I don’t think we should be reducing this to a question of sex, she harrumphed.
People nodded in agreement. I kept quiet.
I was forty, and everyone else was eighteen, fresh out of high school, fresh out of crushes on Justin Timberlake, and fresh out of warm homes with full fridges.
So yes, I kept quiet, drove home and rang my sister, a schoolteacher of twenty+ years, and an avid reader. It was a Friday evening. She’d had a couple of glasses of wine and by then, so had I. Anyway, when I told her first about the question, and then the responses, she fell off her chair laughing. I mean that – she really did fall off her chair. We didn’t have Whatsapp back then, but I heard the bang and the muttered swearing. My sister, you see, had spent most of her working life marking children's essays. Boys began with explosions, or car chases. Girls began with descriptions - places, or people, it didn't matter, but always descriptions. She would, she said, have bet her retirement package on being able to tell the sex of the child who wrote it. Some things just are. Anyway, she got up off the floor, poured another glass and we went onto more complex questions of the universe, such as how did we never notice that Stockard Channing was in her thirties when she played the teenage Rizzo, in Grease. (The West Wing was big at the time, and we love Stockard Channing.)
So back to that first question. Do we apologise more? The answer of course is a resounding yes. Three times, YES, YES, YES.
It goes way back. It was, remember, all Eve’s fault in the first place. It’s ingrained in us. And maybe it’s less to do with religion, than biology. We, after all, are the ones who carry and care for the babies. Someone has to take responsibility.
Anyway, here in this midlife wonderland, with the babies grown and real changes happening to my menopausal brain, I’ve decided to make a list of five things that never have been, and never will be, my fault, but which nevertheless I have at times felt guilt and responsibility for. Feel free to add your own.
1. It’s not my fault if my son is snacking on processed rubbish because the healthy fruit I bought, carried home and displayed in an attractive manner, in an attractive bowl, has gone rotten OVERNIGHT. How many times has that happened? This is a result of the three weeks that satsuma spend in transit, and is not in any way, shape, or form, a reflection of my ability as a mother to feed my child well.
2. It’s not my fault if the movie we have finally managed to agree upon, on a family movie night, starts glitching. I did all I could. I made the meal and bought the popcorn. I pay the subscription. I didn’t invent streaming and glitching is beyond my remit. So, no, not my fault if another ‘family’ event turns out to be a damp squid.
3. It’s not my fault if I can’t use the google navigation system on my smartphone when I’m walking. My twelve year old can. He grabs the phone flips it and hey presto! Suddenly we’re on the right side of the street, walking in the right direction. I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried! But every single time I end up walking away from where I want to get to. I could call myself stupid. Or slow. I could take a leaf out of my eighty-six-years-old mother’s book, and spend a whole life-time putting myself down, as she has with her constant hesitation over telling left, from right. Or, I can take a leaf out of my twenty-one-year old daughter’s book. Because when she struggled for years with math, she begged me to get her a referral to test for Dyscalculia. I laughed! Dyscalculia? Never heard of it! (Click here if you haven’t either.) I wasn’t laughing months later when the doctor confirmed it. Intelligence comes in many forms, and how wise my daughter was, and so, no it's not my fault. I don't have the time to take a test for Google Mapsia, but you know what I mean.
4. It’s not my fault if my husband doesn’t love me anymore.
5. And finally, it most certainly is not my fault if people react to my writing in ways I did not anticipate. It won’t change my course of action. The only person I am answerable to is me, and as I set myself pretty high standards I’m comfortable with that. In truth, along with that entirely predictable mouldy satsuma, this is what has inspired this week's post. Recently, someone I know in real life read a post in which I discuss events that happened this summer. Choices my husband made, not me. This person then contacted my husband, to tell him I was writing negative things about him and posting them publicly. The bare bones of that is true, albeit under my author name, and never on my personal profiles. But, as I said to my husband, you married a writer. He had the grace to laugh. And as I’ll say now to the person in question: You should see what I left out.
And here's the thing. Twenty years ago I would have panicked. I wouldn't even have written so truthfully in the first place, so cautious and terrified was I of not offending. But twenty years ago my brain was different. I'm fifty-six now. Estrogen and therefore oxytocin (the bonding hormone) have massively decreased and in parallel so has my desire to seek approval, and avoid disapproval. These are real changes. Put simply, I'm not looking for a mate anymore and my brain knows. My days of pro-creation are over. The upside of this is that my days of accepting superfluous blame, and then offering superfluous apologies are also done. I wonder how many reading feel the same?
Until next time,
Cary
Midweek in Sweden, i.e. Wednesday, is known as lilördag. A weekend feeling, sandwiched between Tuesday and Thursday. So that’s when you can expect to receive these letters, to enjoy with a glass of wine, or a coffee and/or a slab of chocolate. Think of them as a letter from a friend overseas.
But writing them takes time. It may surprise you to know that from beginning to end, is a full working day. So, I’ve also decided to turn on paid subscriptions. The cost is minimal, less than the coffee you might be drinking as you read. If you’re ready to do so, you can subscribe below.
Gift subscriptions are also available. So if you know someone that would enjoy and find value from these letters, this is an easy way to gift them.
Or just share wherever, and with whoever you please.