I am an apology addict. I know that it’s a trope-turned-cliche that women apologize too much, but I’m sorry to say that my propensity for unprompted and effusive contrition puts even your average upspeaking millennial office worker to shame.
Am I calling you on the phone? I’m SORRY to bother you. Am I approaching the customer-service desk where you work specifically to answer questions like the one I need to ask? I’m still SO SORRY to be SUCH A PAIN. Did I — horror of horrors — take longer than fifteen seconds to load my groceries into my stroller? OH MY GOODNESS, I AM SO, SO, SO, SO SORRY. Did my child make any noise whatsoever in public? PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE LET ME TELL YOU HOW SORRY I AM. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
It comes from being terrified of conflict, and in possession of a much…
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