Who's Sorry Now
Ever since I was a little girl I've had a knack for pissing people off without realizing it.
It's more than just the fact that I do it unintentionally — I mean, I've never said to myself hey, why not do something that'll really annoy my friend, or that'll make my dad angry with me, or that'll drive my mother around the bend? (OK, well, that last one, maybe.) — it's that after I've committed the egregious act, I'm blissfully unaware of it, and go on behaving as if everything were just fine between me and the offended party.
Is it the responsibility of the offended to inform the offender of the offence? Or is it the offender's job to know when she's caused offence? Does it depend on the situation? If there are rules of engagement for the giving and receiving of offence, I'd appreciate it if someone would clue me in.
Today it was brought to my attention that I offended friends who were recently married by not attending their wedding after having RSVP'd in the affirmative. This surprised me, because I've been to at least three dozen weddings in my life, and with the exception of my father's, which was held in the new wife's living room with only her children, me, and the X as guests, I honestly don't believe anyone would have noticed if I hadn't been there. Especially not the bride and groom who, one would think, have more pressing thoughts than who had or hadn't shown up.
Knowing that the couple would be on their honeymoon the week after the wedding, I waited until they returned, then emailed an apology. Not wanting to draw questions about why I hadn't shown up, I made what I thought was a self deprecating joke about how they probably hadn't even noticed I wasn't there, then inquired on the honeymoon which had been spent in the recently hurricane-decimated Bahamas.
The groom, my friend Simon, replied: Of course we knew you weren't there — you bugged me about making sure you got an invite. We only invited 65 people, you were one of those 65, as the placecard at your table indicated. I'm sorry you weren't able to make it but a note at least the next day would have been nice.
I bugged him to get an invite?
The bride, Carly, who I met only when she began dating Simon, replied: Just so you know in the future for other weddings .. It is noticeable. Very noticeable. And a last minute no show (you + date, so in fact there were two empty seats at a table) still has a meal prepared for them and paid for.
So it's about the money, then? Christ, I sent them a present two weeks before the wedding. I picked the most expensive item on their registration list (Ralph Lauren sheets, $150) just so they wouldn't think I was broke. Or cheap.
So why didn't I go?
My handsome Scot stood me up.
I know what you're thinking: "Come on, Sass, why didn't you just go alone?" But that's because you didn't have to listen to me talk incessantly, like an adolescent schoolgirl, about my wonderful new boyfriend, and how he was coming all the way from San Francisco just to escort me to this wedding, and what a great dancer he is, and how I can't wait for you to meet him. You didn't sit in your kitchen on the afternoon of the wedding, dressed in a fabulous pink Jackie-O dress and matching coat with rhinestone buttons, chain smoking and watching the clock. You didn't spend the evening getting drunk and crying on your friend Magda's shoulder.
I couldn't bear the thought of going to the wedding alone, and listening to my friends' well-intentioned words. "Forget about him, he's an asshole," which, of course, is code for, "Wow, you pathetic loser!"
Because it takes a Herculean effort to offend me, perhaps that's why it doesn't occur to me that others are more easily offended. When, for example, strangers are rude to me, it simply confirms my belief that among the masses there are few people whom I'd care to get to know better. I think to myself, (1) that person's an asshole, but (2) I'll never see him/her again, so (3) who cares?
I can't remember the last time someone I cared about truly offended me. Annoyed me, sure. Pissed me off, ok. But I get over it almost immediately. Not to sound to Pollyanna about it, but life really is too short to stay mad at the people who share yours.
What bothers me is that Simon and Carly are so angry with me it's possible our friendship is over. I don't have many friends with whom I can discuss postmoderism in pop culture, film, and literature; in whose presence I can refer to Joy Division without drawing a blank stare, and whom I can tease and mock and banter with and who can give as good as he gets. Simon is one of those friends, and now I may have lost him.
Ironically, I was worried that he would feel sorry for me. Instead, he's angry with me.
But I'd rather be hated than pitied.
* * *
Go to next story, which is not so much a story as a goodbye to John Peel. Though for months Sass was sure her friendship with Simon was over, an olive branch was eventually extended.
It's more than just the fact that I do it unintentionally — I mean, I've never said to myself hey, why not do something that'll really annoy my friend, or that'll make my dad angry with me, or that'll drive my mother around the bend? (OK, well, that last one, maybe.) — it's that after I've committed the egregious act, I'm blissfully unaware of it, and go on behaving as if everything were just fine between me and the offended party.
Is it the responsibility of the offended to inform the offender of the offence? Or is it the offender's job to know when she's caused offence? Does it depend on the situation? If there are rules of engagement for the giving and receiving of offence, I'd appreciate it if someone would clue me in.
Today it was brought to my attention that I offended friends who were recently married by not attending their wedding after having RSVP'd in the affirmative. This surprised me, because I've been to at least three dozen weddings in my life, and with the exception of my father's, which was held in the new wife's living room with only her children, me, and the X as guests, I honestly don't believe anyone would have noticed if I hadn't been there. Especially not the bride and groom who, one would think, have more pressing thoughts than who had or hadn't shown up.
Knowing that the couple would be on their honeymoon the week after the wedding, I waited until they returned, then emailed an apology. Not wanting to draw questions about why I hadn't shown up, I made what I thought was a self deprecating joke about how they probably hadn't even noticed I wasn't there, then inquired on the honeymoon which had been spent in the recently hurricane-decimated Bahamas.
The groom, my friend Simon, replied: Of course we knew you weren't there — you bugged me about making sure you got an invite. We only invited 65 people, you were one of those 65, as the placecard at your table indicated. I'm sorry you weren't able to make it but a note at least the next day would have been nice.
I bugged him to get an invite?
The bride, Carly, who I met only when she began dating Simon, replied: Just so you know in the future for other weddings .. It is noticeable. Very noticeable. And a last minute no show (you + date, so in fact there were two empty seats at a table) still has a meal prepared for them and paid for.
So it's about the money, then? Christ, I sent them a present two weeks before the wedding. I picked the most expensive item on their registration list (Ralph Lauren sheets, $150) just so they wouldn't think I was broke. Or cheap.
So why didn't I go?
My handsome Scot stood me up.
I know what you're thinking: "Come on, Sass, why didn't you just go alone?" But that's because you didn't have to listen to me talk incessantly, like an adolescent schoolgirl, about my wonderful new boyfriend, and how he was coming all the way from San Francisco just to escort me to this wedding, and what a great dancer he is, and how I can't wait for you to meet him. You didn't sit in your kitchen on the afternoon of the wedding, dressed in a fabulous pink Jackie-O dress and matching coat with rhinestone buttons, chain smoking and watching the clock. You didn't spend the evening getting drunk and crying on your friend Magda's shoulder.
I couldn't bear the thought of going to the wedding alone, and listening to my friends' well-intentioned words. "Forget about him, he's an asshole," which, of course, is code for, "Wow, you pathetic loser!"
Because it takes a Herculean effort to offend me, perhaps that's why it doesn't occur to me that others are more easily offended. When, for example, strangers are rude to me, it simply confirms my belief that among the masses there are few people whom I'd care to get to know better. I think to myself, (1) that person's an asshole, but (2) I'll never see him/her again, so (3) who cares?
I can't remember the last time someone I cared about truly offended me. Annoyed me, sure. Pissed me off, ok. But I get over it almost immediately. Not to sound to Pollyanna about it, but life really is too short to stay mad at the people who share yours.
What bothers me is that Simon and Carly are so angry with me it's possible our friendship is over. I don't have many friends with whom I can discuss postmoderism in pop culture, film, and literature; in whose presence I can refer to Joy Division without drawing a blank stare, and whom I can tease and mock and banter with and who can give as good as he gets. Simon is one of those friends, and now I may have lost him.
Ironically, I was worried that he would feel sorry for me. Instead, he's angry with me.
But I'd rather be hated than pitied.
Go to next story, which is not so much a story as a goodbye to John Peel. Though for months Sass was sure her friendship with Simon was over, an olive branch was eventually extended.
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