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I can’t tell you how many times I have said, “I’m sorry” in a relationship and not meant it.

“You can’t cook instant Macaroni And Cheese?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You bought another pair of shoes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You got so drunk you can’t remember us having sex?”

“I’m sorry.”

 

Saying, “I’m sorry”, I think, is the equivalent of buying imitation designer clothing: If you don’t understand what you are doing, there really is no point. I subscribe to the theory of, “Show, Don’t Tell.” So, therefore, I will remain utterly silent if I am not remorseful.

“Aren’t you going to apologize for snapping my Limp Bizcuit CD in half?”

* Sall continues filling her nails and flipping through Vogue. She can’t hear the question over the Ben Harper album playing in the background. She sways to the beat.*

 

The thing is, I have a tremendous amount of empathy for people. Especially people I care about. If I don’t understand what they are upset/angry/ignoring me over, I will happily wear their shoes for, say, twenty minutes until I have the situation figured out and simplified it enough to bitch about. But, even if I am in the wrong, I am not always going to apologize for something I intended on doing. Nor do I expect it in return.

 

Saying “I’m sorry,” is just another over used phrase. Like “I love you,” or “Lindsay Lohan is in rehab”. Actions do, I assure you, speak louder than words.

 

The Johnny and I broke up because he decided he wanted us to be “Just Friends”: That impossible dream that all breaker-uper’s say to the breaker-upee’s to, apparently, soften the blow.

“I am getting too attached,” He said. “I just want to be friends.”

“So you still want to see me?”

“Yes.”

“And so, forgive me for asking, how will this make you less attached?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, unable to look at me.

 

Last Wednesday, I woke up to my phone vibrating at three o’clock in the morning. This was strange because, A) I am the deepest sleeper you can imagine and will probably die from being burnt to a crisp in a house fire while I am dreaming about Brad Pitt; B) I have never woken up from something vibrating in my bed. But I guess you are never too young or old to start.

It was The Johnny.

“I am outside your house,” He slurred. “I’m drunk. Can I stay over?”

Knowing that if I didn’t say, “Yes,” he would get into his car and possibly wrap it around a pole, I relented, put on my glasses so I could see and opened my door sporting a bourbon-stained T-shirt, underpants and unwashed hair.

I knew he was thinking, “Man, am I ever so sorry.”

 

But, surprisingly, The Johnny threw himself into my house and face.

“Kiss me,” He slurred.

I was still half in the Brad Pitt dreamland: The reality of the situation was like having to downgrade from Marc Jacobs to K-Mart blazers with no choice. And in the middle of the night, no less.

“Pardon?” I questioned.

“Kiss me!” He moved closer again.

“Oh. My. God.” I thought. “I’m a booty call!”

 

There is nothing quite like realizing that your ex-boyfriend is using you as a Drunken Sex Call. I mean, sure, I have made those calls (Aside: Once upon an eighteen-year-old, I was sleeping with the first of X amount of Californians. At close to daylight on a Saturday morning, I called him and sung “Linger” by The Cranberries into his voicemail. Which was possibly the first time I was ever apologetic to a boy) but I always call someone I don’t have an emotional attachment to.

Dial-a-…you know.

So, when someone tells you, in their sober glory, “I just don’t want a girlfriend,” and then comes crawling back to embrace those girlfriend duties of blowjobs, banging and breakfast, issues arise. Namely, my ego.

 

“It won’t count,” The Johnny explained to me as he searched my kitchen for alcohol. It was long gone. “Let’s just have fun.”

And they say romance is dead.

Has sex with a drunk ex-boyfriend ever been described as fun? The only words I have ever heard follow, “[Insert name] and I hooked up last night,” are “bad”, “mistake” and “smaller than I remember.”

 

And I’m sorry, but even dressed in a T-shirt and underwear, I will make a point: You can’t have your cake and eat it too. No matter how remorseful you may be about the situation.

 

I sat on the shag pile carpet rug in my lounge room, thinking of how I could articulate to the drunk Boy in the early hours of the morning, “I am not sleeping with you,” which was a hard (ahem) task. Because, to be honest, it is an excuse I have never had to come up with before.

The Johnny stared at me, from his comfortable position on the couch, looking at me as if to say, “If you don’t have sex with me, I might die.”

 

I was almost apologetic. But instead, I threw a pillow and a blanket at him.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t fuck my friends.”

But I really was empathetic.

 

Post By Sall