Why Is Apologizing Our First Instinct?
Developing consciousness of my apologetic tendencies.
I like to walk in the morning before work. It is my favorite time of the day. The air is usually cool, crisp, the sun is shining (obviously, this is Los Angeles), and the new day feels like what I always wish I would feel during a juice cleanse but never do: energetic, lightness, clarity.
I am on one of these cleansing walks at 7 a.m. in the sometimes creepily utopian neighborhood of Beverly Hills (near my office), walking past the Spanish-style homes and early morning dog walkers.
Generally, the street is quiet. No cars, few people, only the sound of birds chirping and a faint hum of flowing traffic a couple of blocks away on Olympic Boulevard.
To me, it’s white noise. I am in an almost meditative state on these walks, staying present.
This day, I just so happen to be listening to Alyssa Mastromonaco’s book, Who Thought This Was a Good Idea?: And Other Questions You Should Have Answers to When You Work in the White House. Specifically, I’m listening to Alyssa (she makes me feel like I’m on a first-name basis) describing how she learned to speak up in a room full of men in the White House.
As I’m contemplating my own journey of finding my voice, a silver BMW three series pulls up next to me. For a brief moment, I think I am about to be kidnapped — even though I am walking in Beverly Hills in broad daylight, I am still a woman walking alone without any cars or people surrounding me.
My slightly (maybe majorly?) paranoid self remembers that I am wearing running shoes and can run into a neighbor’s yard if the situation gets dire, although that might be over-estimating my physical ability (or lack thereof) to hop a fence.
He rolls down his window. At the wheel sits a white male, likely in his early 30s (in actuality he looks like he’s in his late 30s, but I believe it is fair to assume, based on what happens next, that he is not aging particularly well).
I might be stereotyping based on the car he drove, or maybe I should trust my intuition, but he looks like he used to be in a fraternity at a large school who lived for tailgate parties where girls are dancing topless on a Ford F-150 to Nelly’s Hot in Here.
He might work in some sort of finance job, or maybe at an agency since this is Los Angeles, and definitely does a lot of cocaine on the weekends while sitting at a table at an LA club that he likely didn’t pay for since his best friend is a promoter.
He smiles at me. Slyly, like he knows what he’s about to say will creep me out, but not so much so that he chooses not to potentially boost his ego at 7 a.m. in the morning.
“Hey, are you single?” Is this seriously what you’re leading with?
“No.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Do you not understand English? Or are you asking whether I prefer men or women?
“Um, yes.”
“Well, can I get your number and take you out for a drink sometime?” Did you not hear what I just said? Clearly, my response meant nothing.
“No, sorry.” Fuck, why did I just apologize?
“Aw, too bad.” Did you really expect something different?
He drives off in the opposite direction than I am walking. I shake my head, take a breath, and let 20 seconds pass.
He makes a U-turn after deciding that maybe I would change my mind. Was it because I apologized? He pulls up next to me again. Now, my paranoia of being kidnapped is coming back with a vengeance.
Did I just reject a serial rapist who preys on young professional women taking their morning walks before work in Beverly Hills? Didn’t some of the Manson murders happen near here?
“So, are you sure?” Are you serious?
“Positive.” Go, me. Not sorry this time.
He drives ahead of me, turns right on Olympic heading in the same direction as me. I purposely slow down my walking pace so I would not have to pass him while he waited at the light.
The light changes…finally. I watch his car like a hawk as he drives away, all the way until it disappears from my sight, which on a weekday morning on Olympic Boulevard (i.e., what would be considered a highway in a normal city) takes forever.
I spent the remainder of my walk in a frenzied mix of disgust, anger, and irritation.
Has this worked for him in the past? How did other women respond? Did he actually go on a date with someone he met like this? Did he feel a sense of power after? Did he feel a sense of accomplishment? Did he feel rejected?
But, most of all, I’m tormenting myself. Feeling anger toward myself. Irritation toward myself.
Why the hell was my instinctual reaction to apologize?
No, sorry. Really? Why couldn’t I just end with No? Period. What was I afraid of? Was I afraid of his reaction? Or afraid I’d be perceived as a “bitch”?
And, if so, why did I care?
And I allowed this to happen even while listening to a book focused on female empowerment in a male-dominated world? What the fuck is wrong with me?
My thought spiral finally came to a halt.
In an effort to prepare for the situation recurring (because no doubt it will), I thought about what I could have said instead. I even thought of the scenario if I had to walk past his car again and he rolled down the window to talk to me, to confront him, ask him if it’s worked for him in the past, and tell him he should learn how to respect women, that he will never find someone, and will be alone forever.
But of course, that doesn’t happen.
And of course, I doubt that I would even say anything because if I did, what difference would it make?
I realize that beating myself up about my response was almost worse than my response itself.
The incident itself lasted about one minute in total. One minute of disruption. But my reaction lasted much longer, completely disrupting my meditative walk and consuming my thoughts hours into my day.
I don’t blame myself, but I do realize that I had more control over the effect it had than I believed I had at the moment.
What would have happened if I sat down and breathed for five minutes after, before continuing my walk? Would that pause have refueled my sense of empowerment?
Since this incident, my attention to my own apologetic tendencies has increased dramatically.
I do still struggle with the reason why my initial instinct sometimes is to apologize. I have not quite pinned that down. I can hypothesize that it relates to the pressures of society on me (and women, generally) to please, to be nice, and to be liked.
Part of me, though, does not want to accept that as it almost feels like the autonomy and control is taken away from me.
Instead, I internalize it, absorb it as a reality, and try and transform it into powerful awareness. I’m not saying that I never unnecessarily apologize — that would be completely false. I still sometimes say, “sorry” instead of “excuse me.”
But, I’m conscious of it, I don’t hate myself for it, and my propensity toward apologizing grows a little weaker each time it happens. But my awareness of it, and my ability to be kind to myself grows stronger.
My empowerment never disappears.
