An Apology

Once again I have embarrassed Mary in public. I am truly sorry. Had she known thirty-eight years ago that I was going to become nothing more than an angry old man she might well have thought better of committing the rest of her life to our marriage. My only defense is that at the time I didn’t know that I was going to become an angry old man.

The civil unrest of the late sixties and early seventies may have served to forecast my latter day temperament. I was anti-war, anti-Nixon, and actually went so far as to participate in some of the ubiquitous protests of the time. There was no embarrassment, however, because I found myself caught up in a widespread movement to peaceably work against injustices that obviously needed to be brought down.

Today, however, I discover that I am just a cartoon railing at the establishment. The fact that the Transportation Security Administration has now robbed me of two pocketknives in as many months is upsetting to no one but me. I have questions. Why was the TSA working security for a presidential campaign rally in the first place? Why was TSA enforcing security measures intended for airports at a high school football field? Why was no one other than me upset?

I guess that my appropriate response should have been to amiably fork over my pocketknife of two weeks that I had just purchased to replace the pocketknife of thirty-one years. I guess I should have said to the TSA personnel, “Sure, you take it. You’re just doing your job.” In the forty-eight hours that have passed I have only become more disgusted with myself. It isn’t within me to be so acquiescent. And, I’m even more disgusted with myself because I succumbed to the tension of the moment and didn’t simply stand outside security in protest. I’d seen Barack before and such a silent vigil would have been far more meaningful than the futile argument I engaged in with a TSA official who was “obeying Secret Service orders” (seriously, that’s what he told me). Besides, my humiliated best friend was already on the other side and I was feeling badly about the anguish and embarrassment I was causing her.

At the ripe old age of fifty-eight I seem to be coming up with some pretty convincing arguments that its time for me to just curl up and die. I’ve fathered two beautiful and brilliant daughters, I’ve offered the best of what I am to my wife, and it’s becoming increasingly apparent that my worth to society is on the decline. Perhaps after I cast my vote for Obama it will be time to go. It may be time to amend the codicil to my will instructing that the only words I wish for on my tombstone are “talk is cheap…for that, I’m truly sorry.”