After waking up grumpy this morning, I apologized to Suzy: “I’m sorry, I must have woken up on the wrong side of the bed.”
The phrase traces back to an ancient Roman superstition—that stepping out of bed with your left foot invited evil spirits. I’ll have to ask Suzy how to say it in Latin. But my reflexive attempt to justify a bad mood made me wonder: why can’t we offer a simple, unadorned, “I was wrong”?
Instead, we reach for an excuse—a nicked chin, cold eggs, or running out of hot water. The worse the behavior, the more elaborate the justification. We frame our temper as a temporary, external visitation: It wasn’t my character; it was the mattress.
This impulse reveals two quiet truths about the human ego: To admit fault without a safety net feels like confessing to a character defect. An excuse acts as a shock absorber, signaling that our bad behavior was an anomaly, not the rule. Blaming cold eggs preserves the illusion that in a world of warm breakfasts, we remain inherently good and gentle people.
Centuries after the Romans, our instinct remains unchanged—we still look for a modern equivalent of the left foot to carry the blame.
Maturity begins where the excuse ends. Character isn’t about avoiding every bad mood, but having the courage to offer an apology that stands on its own. To say simply, “I was wrong, and I am sorry,” is to step out of superstition and into full ownership of ourselves. We may not control the weather inside us, but we are always accountable for the storm we bring to others.
Strong stuff, Webb, and convicting. I felt my ears get hot (with guilt) as I read. Thanks for the reminder nudge.
What is the expression? “Your ears were burning?”