Sorry I’m Late. I Didn’t Want to Come

There's a joke or two in that title that you can make for yourself after reading this.

If one could earn a paycheck by canceling plans, I’d be just about set for retirement after this last year. While my bale-per-planned-outing average has gotten significantly better over the course of the last few months, there was a time not too long ago when I was mothballing plans with people like I’d turn into stone if they saw me. Though assuredly frustrating to those left twisting in the wind, it’s been quite disappointing on my end as well.

Because when I make plans I sincerely want to follow through, of course. At the time I feel good, capable of doing so, and very much look forward to the outing. But soon after making plans and for the entire time leading up to them, my commitment would waver like a sapling in a hurricane. It would be a coin toss all the way up to the moment of truth as to whether or not I’d feel capable of giving it a go. Or worse, thinking I could handle it and then having to leave at some point early on. Thus causing my already shitty-feeling self to feel even shittier for doing something shitty like that to someone. So like, shitty^3.

Recently, by whatever sorcery it is that Facebook knows exactly how I’m feeling and what I might be interested in at any given time, an advertisement appeared in my feed that made me smirk. It was for a t-shirt that read, “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t want to come.” That’s funny. It wasn’t entirely on the nose, because in the scenario detailed across the front of this particular item of clothing, I actually arrive. But it was close enough, so I bought it.

Sure, it would have been more accurate had it read, “My apologies for canceling our plans to meet for drinks, it’s all too much for me today.”

Or, “Sorry I didn’t say goodbye. I was caught beneath the weight of a heavy memory that I couldn’t get out from under and had to leave.”

Or, “Please excuse me for baling. When I got in the car to head over, I found an old pack of her gum in the middle console and it kind of ended me for the day.”

Or perhaps the most stingingly accurate, “A thousand pardons, I couldn’t confirm lunch with you because I had to masturbate multiple times in order to scare up enough oxytocin and dopamine to want to make it to see tomorrow. And I was afraid you’d be able to read the shame currently and reflectively residing in my eyes.” 

They’re all pretty accurate and more or less relay the same message. But the shirt I wound up purchasing felt like the most publicly appropriate.