I don't have a lot of revenge fantasies.
It's not that I'm such a goody-two-shoes. Well, okay, I'm a little bit of a goody-two-shoes. I believe in the power of Being Nice.
That's how I was brought up. "Be Nice" -- said absolutely everyone in my family.
And, as a corollary -- "Don't wish bad things to happen to anyone."
Because everyone you know -- including those who are mean to you -- is someone's kid. Or parent, or loved one. And if something bad did happen, then you would also be hurting people who don't deserve it.
Which is why I don't have much in the way of revenge fantasies.
What I have, though, are apology fantasies.
How I would love the people who have wronged me to see that they have wronged me. And to come and say they are sorry.
Here are the people I would like to hear from:
-- The fifth grade teacher who bullied me into tears on a daily basis
-- The boy who made fun of me in front of the whole class in 7th grade and introduced me to the feeling of public humiliation
-- The friend who fixed me up with a nice guy, and then decided she would take him for herself
-- The man I fell madly in love with who forgot to tell me he was married
-- The boss who decided that if she made my life miserable enough, I would quit; who forced me into counseling for what she called my "psychological issues" but which the therapist described as symptoms of severe workplace abuse
-- The boss for whom I had worked my ass off for 12 years, who saw the above happening and never lifted a finger to help
-- The man who I forgave and forgave, thinking he would eventually see how sweet and wonderful I was, who told me finally that I was just not pretty enough for him
-- And there there was...
I just can't think of anyone else.
That's it I guess.
Wait a minute.
There are over 7 billion people in the world. I am 65-years-old.
And I can only think of seven people out of 7 billion over the course of 65 years who owe me an apology?
Well, for crying out loud. That's about as insignificant as you can get.
All my enemies can fit around my dining room table, and there would still be room for me.
So forget about it. Forget about apologies.
Let's have dinner instead.
Pass the potatoes.
Read more from Nancy at her blog, "Not Quite Old."