1248 Maid Misteaks? So What.
So what, indeed. Today, there’s no shame in being a screwup.
You don’t need Six Sigma or the Inhuman Resources Department to tell you blew it. You know it. And you may even care.
But you’re not ashamed and you should be.
One of the common side effects of our joyful march over the cliff, be it national or communal or personal, is that we’re training ourselves out of shame.
Oh, you know. “Stuff” happens.
Well, when you’re down, pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start all over again. (Hmmm. Someone should make that a song title.)
I’m not talking about rolling yourself into fetal position when your cake falls in the oven, you drop a knitted stitch, can’t finish the supposedly easy Monday crossword puzzle, or even head the wrong way on a one way street.
This is about the stuff of consequence. Like leaving the cake long enough to catch fire in the oven or hitting a police car or a kid on a bike as you go up the down street.
And that project on the job? You know. The one you turned in three months late and then it didn’t work?
You have “fired” shame, the best supervisor you ever had or ever will have.
What should be shame often visits as blame. “It’s not my fault.” Or, more to the point, “It’s his fault.” Or even more to the point, “It’s YOUR fault.”
“If you hadn’t been standing there, I would not have spilled that Merlot on your white fur rug.”
“If hadn’t arrived early, I would have been ready for you.”
“I had a tough childhood.”
“What do you expect, I’m just a beginner at going to the bathroom?”
“No one told me nuclear waste was dangerous.”
Admit your mistakes and move on? Okay, that’s good advice, eventually. But short term, assume the (fetal) position and beat the living daylights out of yourself.
Wallow in your stupidity. Your carelessness. Your lack of planning or whatever it was that you got wrong. It’s your castor oil. Take it!
We aren’t aware of shame or embarrassment because the “me generation” and has taught us not to be while zealous uber-moralizers overused it. Time to break out of the solipsist mold.
Now, what’s for dinner? How about a nice juicy stake? Somebody, please see if you can find the made.
--Bernie Goetz, pot pusher? Well, he’s 65 years old now and apparently retired from shooting subway riders. Good thing this is a small charge, because otherwise the brothers at Rikers would pull him limb from limb for old time’s sake.
--Semiannual time change rant. It’s daylight saving time, not daylight savingS time. And while we’re at it, it’s Feb Ru ery, not Feb you ary.
--Traditionally, WestraDamus generally predicts the past. But there are exceptions. De Blasio is the next mayor.
I’m Wes Richards. My opinions are my own but you’re welcome to them. ®
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© WJR 2013