Forgive and Forget: Would You Like Some Fries with that Second Chance?

You wouldn’t think so to know me, but I’m pretty quick to forgive. Minor wrongs go under the rug and we move on. As for major wrongs? I see those as personality flaws and I just quit associating with you. 

From an outsider’s perspective, what might look like me holding a grudge is actually just a choice to cut someone out of my life. We’ll use my mother-in-law as an example. My husband and I have nothing to do with her; I’m not even entirely certain what state she lives in. Without the gritty details, I can tell you that the woman wronged my spouse in a big way. Again and again and again. So goodbye. I’m not sitting around holding a grudge for her wrongdoings. I just can't abide her as a person, and we’ve cut her out of our lives. (Do trust me, it was the right thing to do.) Her major wrongs were a sign of who she is and it turns out that who she is is the kind of person with whom association is toxic. Simple as that. (I know, I know. It’s never simple, but give me a break. We’re on the Internet, for heaven’s sake. I get to abbreviate and speak hyperbolically from time to time.)

But the smaller stuff, I forgive. And it’s out of sheer laziness. Being pissed off at people long term takes way too much energy. And memory, come to think of it. I’d rather direct my energy and memory at things I enjoy, and it turns out that I find being pissed less than enjoyable. 

My tailor fouled up the hem on a pair of jeans. I was quite angry—mostly angry that they didn’t demonstrate sorrow at their screw up—but a month later I was back with a pair of slacks. Why? Why forgive and go back? Oh, ‘cause I don’t want to have to do the legwork to find a new tailor. And I did the math. One screw up out of the 25 some-odd pairs of pants they’ve hemmed for me? Not bad. People aren’t perfect. 

Last week the restaurant I use for catering for work was 45 minutes late delivering a lunch for 30. The feelings of horror that come with pacing in a breakroom waiting for the food to show are truly indescribable—the pit in my stomach a cavern fit for storing aircraft—but I used the restaurant again the following day. I expressed my frustration, made them feel terrible about the problem by calmly expressing how embarrassed I was, and felt just fine about continuing on. Why not use another of the many restaurants in the area? Well, this one has online ordering—even acceptable on the morning of the lunch meeting!—and delivers! Again, I did the math—one [massive] mess up in four months of ordering a catered lunch or two each week? Yeah, those odds work for me—they’re not enough to compel me to go through the rigmarole to find another restaurant that can deal with my procrastination in lunch purchasing and distaste for phoning in orders. 

At the moment, I have the good fortune of not being able to recall any instances where friends or family members have wronged me in any way. So according to my memory, I’ve never been wronged by friends or family. Thus I have no illustrations to offer about how I easily forgave them because I didn’t want to go hunting for new loved ones (the legwork on that would be freakin’ astronomical anyhow). 

For now this lackadaisical forgiveness makes me look rather sweet and merciful—the girl who’s all about second chances and probably won’t even deny you a third. But I can forsee a future were this screws me in the end and I’m just the dummy who can’t get it through her thick skull that shoddy work is what it is and she really ought to move on. That day mght be in my future, but for now I’m happy to behave as the understanding customer, friend, sister.  

(So I guess this is your invitation to start messing with me and see how long I’ll last. You’ll probably be surprised. And either impressed at my sticktoitiveness or dismayed at my idiocy. Either way it has the potential to be entertaining, and that’s always a plus.)