Everyone has that unique someone in their life whom I like to self-explanatorily ascribe the label ‘materialistic humble pie eater’. Put even simpler, they are part of a group who share the belief that objects hovering on the lower end of the inanimate thingamabob scale of worth can do no wrong in curing all ills, and procuring batted eyelashes doling out forgiveness in response to their screw-ups.
These people have digested the constantly fed myth that a diamond can thaw the most battle-worn heart of a woman, or that a flat-panel television screen with dimensions more suited to wallpaper deckage can alleviate the most stubborn grudges held by a man.
No such people exist, of course. Even among the most hardcore useless crap procuring individuals out there, deep down within, there is a persistently quelled (in favour of one’s pride) yet ever present acknowledgment (in favour of one’s balls) that the myth trumpeted by materialism is merely a wonderfully terrible bullshit-laden excuse for taking the easier option when it comes to meting out an apology.
After all, everyone knows about the full-on knee and floor connecting, wailing and hand wringing alternative to emotionally void material purchases when it comes to apologising to people. Right?
A spat and a gift-wrapped apology
I am an atrocious, and utterly predictable, passive-aggressive. Upon being hurt or insulted, I somehow manage to cling to a five-year-old’s belief that completely shutting off from the offender in question will result in my eventual upper hand in procuring victory, retaliation sparring wise.
So it was recently with a friend who, to wrap the story up in a nice little PG bow, set up the horse-drawn carriage of dissent among others about something I hadn’t done, attached the rotting corpse of my reputation to the stirrups, and did a good dozen rounds through shrapnel-riddled mud before the truth came out.
It was explained to me at the time, through the proverbial messenger’s lips, that she was sorry. I reflected.
My friend (though, in retrospect, an appended ‘of a friend’ is probably mandatory until the last of my passive-aggressiveness dies down) is not a prize mistress of accountability, or discretion. A roadkill squirrel could observe her actions and correctly deduce her status as the only child of fawning, upstart parents.
Taking into account my already tiresome admission of passive-aggressiveness, she could not be more of a polar opposite to me than if we existed on opposing spectrums of a black hole.
Thus it was when we bumped into each other later down the track. As though an incorporeal storage bubble had been floating in her wake ever since my exoneration, she pulled a bag out of nowhere and presented it to me with a huge smile on her face.
The bag harboured a brand-new jacket. I ogled it. Memories surfaced, and I realised I had previously ogled the beautiful piece of clothing during a mall outing. I wondered for an inexplicable moment whether friend-of-a-friend and I were in fact dating and I was repressing.
After some more ogling, I met friend-of-a-friend’s winning smile again. Without a word, I pushed the bag back towards her in almost disbelieving disgust, and walked off.
There’s no such thing as a lucky spoilt child
Friend-of-a-friend and I eventually reconciled. Fact is, I’m one of the weaker species of passive-aggressi who are unable to feed their own discontent with other people for longer than a week. (Excepting all incidences involving shopping trolleys and roadkill chocolate ice-cream cones.)
Getting back on point, I soon succumbed to my curiosity. Learning during another mall outing that she had refunded the jacket, I asked friend-of-a-friend why she’d even brought it to me in the first place. A new alien species seemed to sprout on my forehead at that moment, as she goggled at me.
That was me saying ‘I’m really really sorry’, she explained, preschool teacher to crayon-eating student.
I considered asking her whether she was serious in her presumption that the key to my forgiveness was through my jacket-ogling shallowness. Looking at her, however, I desisted. That’s the thing about over-adulated people. They rarely find the need to act in defence of themselves as they rarely face criticism. Therefore, they make terrible liars.
She wasn’t lying. Despite our differences, we were close enough friends for me to be able to play out in my head a mini-rehash of her past falling-outs with other friends. Her falling-ins had unanimously involved a purchase of some sort.
Friend-of-a-friend had never once concluded in her life that her ability to patch up her disputes had been attributable to her gestures of goodwill, and not her gestures of credit-card swiping. Her parents had taught her that love could only ever be tied in with such things as lavish birthday parties, brand-name clothes, and every other avenue to appeasing her materialistic self which existed under a sun that in all likelihood had never witnessed her receiving even a simple parental hug.
As I returned to my chocolate ice-cream cone, I couldn’t help but distract myself from an approaching trolley of groceries for a split moment in order to feel sorry for her.
