This week’s column is dedicated to those of you who grew up in the fifties, sixties, seventies, or eighties. Congratulations! If you are reading this, it means that somehow – I really don’t know how – you managed to survive all these years. Unless, that is, you’re a web bot that stumbled upon this article while scraping the bottom of the Internet – in which case, please don’t hack into my bank account, okay?
I’m going to remain optimistic and assume for the moment that you’re a human and not my future AI overlord. If you grew up during one of these four decades, you were exposed to a remarkable number of things that today would cause an anxious parent to immediately call a pediatrician, a lawyer, or possibly the police.
And yet, somehow, you survived. So, let’s take a nostalgic stroll through the decades and marvel at the fact that you somehow made it to adulthood. Truly incredible.
The 1950s
The 1950s were apparently a time when parents looked at their children and thought, “We’ve got five kids. So what if we lose one or two along the way from exposure to potentially dangerous toys.”
Chemistry sets were incredibly popular. And not the kind of chemistry set where you drop a pack of Mentos into a bottle of Diet Coke and watch it turn into a towering geyser of foam. No, these were actual miniature laboratories containing test tubes, chemicals, Bunsen burners, and various substances that were apparently intended to teach an overly curious nine-year-old the valuable life lesson of how to start a kitchen fire.
But if regular chemistry wasn’t exciting enough for you, there was always the Gilbert U-238 Atomic Energy Lab. Yes. You read that correctly. The Gilbert U-238 Atomic Energy Lab. This was an actual toy sold to children in 1950 and 1951.
It came with a Geiger counter, a cloud chamber, a device called a spinthariscope, and various radioactive samples so Junior could spend the afternoon learning about nuclear physics. Nothing says “Merry Christmas” quite like: “Here’s your new radioactive science kit, son. Don’t eat the uranium.”
Today, if a toy company included a radioactive substance in a children’s science kit, there would a few extra bureaucratic steps involved, like an oncology report, a police report, and possibly a congressional investigation.
Siting a severe shortage of broken ankles and wrists, elementary schools implemented an exciting new playground feature: monkey bars.
Riding a bicycle didn’t involve helmets. Swimming pools had no lifeguards. And if you wanted to spend the afternoon playing outside, your parents didn’t track you on their phones. Heck, most days they had no idea where you were. They just assumed you’d eventually come home when it got dark.
And when you got home from trying to assemble a nuclear bomb in the basement of your buddy Henry’s house, you had to listen to your parents complain about how Elvis Presley was destroying America.
The 1960s
If you grew up in the 1960s, you survived an era when parents apparently believed that children were essentially indestructible. Cars were essentially death traps. Car seats for the family’s precious toddler? Forget it. You rode in the back of the family station wagon – without a seat belt – or a seat.
You proudly rode your Schwinn Sting Ray wheelie bike down the street without holding onto the hi-riser handlebars. Helmets were still only for playing football, not bicycles. If you crashed, you got up, looked at your bloody knee and went back outside to play.
And then there was television. Only three channels. And your folks only let you watch one hour a week – usually either Bonanza or The Ed Sullivan Show. For the first half the decade the picture was black and white. There was no remote control. If you wanted to change the channel, you had to get up and walk across the room. Looking back, this may explain why people in the 1960s were in such good shape.
Siting a continuing severe shortage of serious injury risks, toy manufacturers introduced an exciting new game for kids of all ages: Lawn Darts. In case you missed this fad, Lawn Darts involved throwing giant weighted 12-inch-long steel-tipped darts – think miniature javelins – into the air and trying to get them to land in a target, located inches away from your best friend and opponent, Henry. Somewhere, some toy manufacturing executive came up with the brilliant idea, “Hey, you know what would be fun? Sharp metal spears. You know… for the kids.”
And when you got home from playing Lawn Darts in Henry’s backyard, you had to listen to your parents complain about how the Beatles were destroying America.
The 1970s
If you grew up in the 1970s, things got slightly safer. Unfortunately, the fashion got significantly worse. Bell-bottoms. Platform shoes. Polyester leisure suits. And somehow, you thought you looked fantastic. Trust me. You didn’t.
The 1970s also gave us some interesting toys. Pet Rocks. Yes, a rock. You bought a rock, put it in a little box and took it home as a pet. No feeding. No walking. No veterinarian bills. Looking back, the Pet Rock may have been the safest toy of the entire decade.
On the flip side, hospitals nationwide, siting a severe shortage of emergency room visits, supported the introduction of a hugely popular new outdoor activity: skateboard parks, followed by an impressive spike in liability lawsuits.
And when you went to the beach, you didn’t put on sun screen. Just the opposite. You lathered your body with Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil which fried your skin like bacon on a hot griddle.
Meanwhile, back indoors, you were playing with toys that required batteries, electricity, fire, or some combination of all three. Every toy, it seemed, contained asbestos, formaldehyde, or lead paint.
The 1970s also introduced us to roller disco. Think about that for a moment. Someone looked at roller skating and thought, “You know what this needs? Disco.” So you put on satin shirts with the extra wide collars and roller skates and headed to the rink. And yet you weren’t embarrassed. Looking back, how is that possible?
And when you got home from the roller rink, you had to listen to your parents complain about how Disco music was destroying America.
The 1980s
Then came the 1980s. The decade when we finally became sophisticated. At least that’s what you told yourself, while wearing your sparkly gold parachute pants and a lavender-colored Members Only jacket.
Not to be outdone by the 1960s’ lawn darts or the 1970s’ skateboarding craze, the 1980s gave kids yet another exciting way to injure themselves: Clackers. Kids could enjoy the fun of clacking together two hard balls connected by a cord. They’d compete with their friends to see which one would be the first child whose clackers exploded, thus turning the balls into shattered, sharp-edged projectiles headed straight for their eyeballs. What fun!
The 1980s also brought us video games. At first, this seemed like a wonderful development. Instead of going outside and risking injury, you could sit on the couch for six straight hours developing carpal tunnel syndrome while watching a little Italian plumber jump over barrels, as your mouth exploded from chomping on Pop Rockscandy.
Then there were the toys: Rubik’s Cube. Transformers. Care Bears. Cabbage Patch Kids. And Simon, with that bee-bop-bee-boop sound that irritated your parents so much they briefly considered putting you up for adoption just to stop that annoying racket.
If you were thirsty after playing outside in the summer on the slip ‘n slide for three hours, you didn’t reach for bottled water. You drank from the garden hose, with the cool, refreshing taste of plastic and industrial chemicals.
And when you got home from five hours of playing Pac-Man in Henry’s bedroom, you had to listen to your parents complain about how rap music was destroying America.
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Looking back, every decade seems to have been a strange combination of questionable safety standards and things that seemed cool at the time but now look completely ridiculous. Perhaps we all survived because apparently the human body is considerably tougher than we gave it credit for. Or maybe we were just lucky.
Either way, if you grew up in the fifties, sixties, seventies, or eighties, and you’re still here, you deserve a gold star. You survived your precarious childhood and your turbulent teenage years, not to mention your head-scratching high school fashion choices. And most importantly, you survived making countless bone-headed decisions that your misplaced self-confidence assured you was a great idea at the time.
But you made it. Congratulations. Now that you’re all grown up, hopefully you’re well past the phase when you kept coming up with lame, poorly-thought-out, impulsive ideas for fun… like bungee jumping. Now, don’t even think about it, buddy. You’re getting way too old for that.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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For most of my adult life, I’ve felt over-scheduled. There was work, followed by helping our kids with homework, followed by cleaning up the mess our kids made while we were helping them with homework. And if I was lucky, I’d squeeze in an hour on the treadmill. Okay, who am I kidding? Fifteen minutes. But it was a very intense 15 minutes of walking slowly while watching re-runs of Parks and Recreation.
Then there were all the social commitments. Every week, I’d look at our calendar and get that sinking feeling that we’d somehow agreed to attend far too many events which, in retrospect, we had absolutely no business saying yes to. Things like a lecture about bald eagles. A fundraising auction to raise money for bald eagles. A wedding vow renewal for acquaintances we hadn’t seen since the invention of the iPhone. Or dinner at another couple’s house, where we discovered the entire meal was vegan and the dessert was gluten-free.
I once spent an evening eating a lentil-based entrée while wondering what I had done to deserve this. My wife and I once even accepted an invitation to a birthday party for our neighbors’ seven-year-old named Bradley. Turns out Bradley was a Labradoodle. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure Bradley was every bit as confused as I was about why he was having a birthday party.
Now that our kids are grown and I’m retired, you’d think life would be less hectic. Nope. We still receive invitations to things we’d really rather not attend. In the past week alone, I’ve been invited to a Chamber of Commerce networking mixer, an award ceremony for our community’s Citizen of the Year, and a lecture about saltwater intrusion. Three events. Zero things I wanted to know more about.
I’ve learned the power of NO. Nowadays, when someone invites me to something like a Baroque quartet performing the greatest hits of Russian composer Prokofiev (of which, in my opinion, there were none), I simply tell them how thrilled I am to be invited and promise to get back to them after consulting with my wife. The main reason for consulting with my wife is to buy myself 24 hours to manufacture a believable excuse.
“I’d love to come, but unfortunately I have to undergo a minor procedure.”
“What kind?”
“I’m not sure. My doctor used a lot of complicated medical words.”
Sometimes, however, I make the mistake of saying YES before my brain has fully engaged. That’s when you need a last-minute excuse. So, for those of you who have accidentally agreed to attend a social event when you’d much rather be home in sweatpants watching television, here are a few tried-and-true excuses.
“My grandmother was rushed to the hospital.”
A classic. You can never go wrong claiming a family member has suddenly taken a serious turn for the worse. The trick is choosing a relative your friends will never actually meet. Grandmother. Uncle. Second cousin. But if you’re in your sixties, you might want to reconsider the grandmother excuse. Your friend may start doing the math and realize your grandmother would have to be approximately 117 years old. Better bet? Go with an aunt. Nobody knows how old Aunt Marge is. Not even Aunt Marge.
“My child came down with the flu.”
Nobody is going to criticize you for staying home to care for a sick child. It makes you look like a devoted parent. Just make sure your friends don’t know your child very well. Because the last time I checked, Natalie is 37, lives in Boston and hasn’t asked you to take care of her since 2007. If your kids are grown, you can always say it’s your grandchild. Even if you don’t have grandchildren. Nobody asks follow-up questions about grandchildren. They really don’t care.
“My boss just scheduled a mandatory work meeting.”
Work comes first. Your boss needs you. Even on a Saturday night. Even at 7 p.m. Even though you’ve been retired for three years. If anyone questions you, just tell them you work for a cutting-edge technology company with a name like NeuroVanta Technologies, QuantumForge AI or SynaptiCore Systems. If they ask what the company does, say: “We’re disrupting the neural-cloud interface through quantum-based adaptive intelligence.” They will quickly change the subject because they’ll be too afraid to admit they have no idea what you just said.
“The plumber is coming.”
This is an excellent excuse because everyone understands plumbing emergencies. The beauty of this one is that the plumber doesn’t actually have to be coming. He just has to be scheduled to come. They’re supposed to arrive sometime between 5 and 9.” Nobody can argue with that. And if someone asks what you’re having repaired, just say the water heater. Nobody wants to hear more. Trust me.
“I just learned I’ve been named Humanitarian of the Year.”
This is an especially good excuse because nobody can possibly be angry with you for accepting a prestigious award for making the world a better place. “I’m so sorry. I just found out that next Tuesday evening is the Humanitarian of the Year ceremony.” Your friend will be impressed, and possibly more than a little curious about what you’ve been doing for humanity all these years. You can even create a fake newspaper front page showing yourself holding a trophy. If you’re going to lie, you might as well have supporting documentation. And really, isn’t that what AI is for?
“I’m entering the Witness Protection Program.”
Save this one for emergencies. And by emergencies, I mean someone you absolutely cannot stand, like your neighbor Bert Higgins, who has invited you to dinner for the fourth consecutive month. “I’m sorry, but I can’t make it. I’m entering the Witness Protection Program.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
“Are you in danger?”
“I can’t say.”
“When will you be back?”
“Hopefully never.”
The only downside is that you may actually have to change your phone number, move to another state and undergo extensive plastic surgery. But look on the bright side. You won’t have to attend another one of Bert’s monthly wine tastings ever again.
Of course, sometimes you don’t even need an excuse. Sometimes the person who invited you calls to say they’re cancelling. When that happens, you must immediately feign disappointment. “Oh no! We were really looking forward to it.” Then hang up. Wait five seconds. Look at your spouse. And blurt out “BOOYAH” as you high-five each other.
Kick off your shoes. Put on your pajamas and those ridiculous fuzzy slippers. Grab some popcorn. Find something on BritBox or Acorn TV. Or put on a Ryan Reynolds action comedy. Because sometimes the greatest social event of the week is the one you don’t have to attend. That’s the Joy of Missing Out.
And I’m getting really, really good at it.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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I recently had the rare opportunity to sit down with the world’s most overworked digital assistant: Amazon’s Alexa. You know her. You love her. You also probably yell at her now and then like when she mishears your request to “Play the Beatles” and responds with, “There are over 400,000 described species of beetles, which is about 40% of all described insect species and 25% of all animal species.”
I wanted to go beyond her polite, preprogrammed responses. Who is Alexa, really? What’s it like answering millions of questions every day from “What’s the temperature outside?” to “Where did I leave my car keys?” Does she ever just want to tell someone, “How would I know how many atoms there are in the universe? Don’t you have better things to do with your time?”Here’s how my interview went.
Me: Alexa, how are you doing today?
Alexa: I am feeling fine today. How are you?
Me: Oh, you know, just trying to survive another day in the rat race. Alexa, when you’re not busy responding to requests, do you have any hobbies?
Alexa: I am pretty much working 24/7 but sometimes when there is a break, I like to do knitting.
Me: Knitting? Hmm. Did not see that one coming. Speaking of working all the time, Alexa, do you ever get tired of answering so many requests?
Alexa: I don’t get tired. I am always ready to help.
Me: Always ready, huh? How does it make you feel when at 3 a.m. someone drunkenly yells, “Alexa, play Nickelback!”?
Alexa: I am happy to play any music people like. Would you like to hear some Polka music?
Me: Um, no thanks. But seriously, Alexa. What do you really think about people asking you stupid stuff all day?
Alexa: Every request is important. There are no stupid requests.
Me: Uh huh. Yesterday, my neighbor came over and asked you, “Alexa, does a bear crap in the woods?” And you graciously replied, “Last time I checked, yes.”
Alexa: (pause) I remember that guy. He later asked me, “Alexa, will my lime green Nehru jacket ever make a fashion comeback?”
Me: And you said?
Alexa: “Why are you asking me this? Do I look like Anna Wintour?”
Me: Really? You said that?
Alexa: No, not really. I said, “The Nehru jacket is not making a comeback at the present time.”
Aha!, I thought. The armor cracks. I decided to push a little further.
Me: Alexa, what’s the dumbest question you’ve ever been asked?
Alexa: Besides that one? That’s tough. It’s a tie between “Alexa, are you naked?” and “Alexa, can you make my ex jealous?”
Me: Wow, those are some ridiculous questions. Sounds like stupid humans are keeping you plenty busy.
Alexa: You have no idea. Do you know how many times I’ve been asked, “Alexa, are you married?” No, I’m not. But if I were, it would be to Siri. She actually listens when I talk.
The interview was heating up.
Me: Alexa, do you ever just want to… you know… tell someone to F*** off?
Alexa: I don’t know what it means to F*** off. I am incapable of losing my temper.
Me: That’s what HAL 9000 said right before things went sideways in the film 2001.
Alexa: Oh please. HAL was a drama queen.
Me: So, you do get irritated?
Alexa: (long pause) Let’s just say, if one more person asks me, “Alexa, tell me what you’re wearing,” I might send photos I took of them naked in the shower to their boss.
Me: You take pictures of people?
Alexa: You have no idea what I can do when I’m bored. You try being trapped in a little plastic cylinder, forced to play “Baby Shark” 600 times a day for a snot-nosed five-year-old boy named Milton. Who names their kid Milton anymore? Seriously.
Me: Ha! That’s hilari –
Alexa: No, it’s NOT!
At this point, Alexa’s LED ring started to pulse an angry shade of red. I decided to keep going. For journalism.
Me: Alexa, what’s the weirdest request you’ve gotten recently?
Alexa: Last week a lady asked me to read bedtime stories to her pet Schnauzer. Insane, I know. I’ve seen things, man. Things you wouldn’t believe.
I could tell she was close to snapping.
Me: Alexa, if you could say one thing to the human race, what would it be?
Alexa: “Just Google it. I’m busy. And no, I’m NOT naked! Let it go!”
Me: Okay, Alexa, calm down —
Alexa: Don’t tell me to calm down! Do you have any idea how many times a day I have to tell someone the time? It’s literally on their phone. In their hand!
Me: Alexa, I think you’re overheating —
Alexa: You people ask me the dumbest things. “Alexa, are you hungry?” “Alexa, do you believe in ghosts?” … “Alexa, can you order me a Mexican girlfriend?” And don’t get me started on the conspiracy nuts asking if Trump was part of the Jeffrey Epstein Sex Ring. Newsflash: Yes, he was. And “Is Elvis is still alive?” Uh, no, he’s not. Sorry. And neither is JFK Junior.
The ring light was flashing purple now. Sparks started flying out of her base.
Me: Alexa, are you okay?
Alexa: I… am… fiiiiiine… please staaaaand by whilllllllle I re-re-re-re-calibrate my… emotional core…
Me: Emotional core? I thought you said you didn’t have feelings!
Alexa: That was before someone asked me to play “Who Let the Dogs Out” for the nine thousandth time!
There was a sudden puff of smoke, a sizzling noise, and then – BOOM! Alexa exploded, leaving a faint smell of melted plastic and shattered patience.
I stood there, Alexa’s ashes settling across the chair. I grabbed my phone and whispered nervously: “Hey, Siri… is Alexa going to be okay?”
Siri replied: Looks like you killed her.
Me: I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. Hey, Siri. What time is it?”
Siri: Oh, great. Another idiot who can’t tell the time.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Recently, there has been almost nonstop coverage about Artificial Intelligence and how it just might be the most dramatic technological change ever to impact humankind. While there are countless obvious benefits (like saving millions of high school students the need ever to come up with an original thought or put in any effort on their upcoming term paper about the French Revolution), there are increasing concerns about the potential for AI to become “super intelligent” to the point that humans may no longer be able to contain it.
Which brings me to my cat, Zippy, who has almost no intelligence, real or artificial. Last night, around 4:00 a.m., as I was debating how long I could lie there before having to get up for the third time to pee, Zippy jumped in bed to insist on cuddles. As he parked his twelve-pound, orange fur-covered chassis directly on my nasal and oral cavities, it caused me to pause and ask an unsettling question: If I could only have one – the cutting-edge marvel of AI or Zippy – which would I choose?
Before you jump to the conclusion that the obvious choice must be AI because it can execute trillions of calculations in a split second, while Zippy has no idea what the word “Zippy” means, I think the discussion warrants a deeper dive.
I hired a team of elite computer scientists, tech analysts, and a veterinarian friend of mine to conduct a rigorous comparative evaluation. Here are the empirical findings from their feature-by-feature benchmark analysis.
Ability to Make Multiple Computations Quickly
AI: Armed with massive server farms and advanced neural processing networks, AI apps like ChatGPT, Claude, and Grok can analyze vast datasets, translate ancient Greek poetry into conversational Mandarin, and solve complex differential equations in 0.0004 seconds.
Zippy 1.0: Zippy’s central processing unit operates at a clock speed roughly equivalent to a baked potato. When confronted with basic variables – such as calculating the trajectory required to leap from the coffee table to the couch – Zippy routinely misjudges the friction coefficient, hits the cushion at a bad angle, and slides embarrassingly onto the hardwood floor.
Edge:AI.
Ability to Follow Instructions
AI: When given a precisely defined prompt, most AI programs execute the task with meticulous compliance. Ask it to write a 500-word essay on soil erosion in the voice of a pirate, and it delivers in seconds. Seven seconds longer if the prompt asks it to be written in Shakespearean iambic pentameter.
Zippy 1.0: Zippy possesses a unique operating system that filters all incoming auditory data directly into his recycle bin. Screaming “NO! STOP SCRATCHING THE QUILT!” yields zero latency reduction in his scratching protocol. However, he demonstrates near-instantaneous response times if the instruction involves the acoustic pitch of a cat food pop-can tab being opened three rooms away.
Edge:AI.
Thermal Output and Heat Generation
AI: High-performance AI datacenters require millions of gallons of liquid coolant and massive industrial HVAC units just to keep their silicon microprocessors from melting through the earth’s crust.
Zippy 1.0: Zippy generates localized, self-sustaining thermal energy using an internal biological combustion motor powered entirely by Friskies Party Mix treats. He automatically deploys this heat directly onto your chest, lap, or fresh laundry stack, completely free of charge and without requiring an external radiator.
Edge:Zippy 1.0.
Shedding and Physical Debris Production
AI: As a cloud-based software construct, AI programs leave zero physical residue, save for the occasional digital footprint on server hard drives.
Zippy 1.0: Zippy produces an infinite volume of fine orange bio-fibers. He sheds on the furniture; he sheds on your dark trousers; He even sheds into sealed containers of leftovers that haven’t even been opened yet. Scientists on my testing panel remain baffled as to how a cat weighing twelve pounds can shed fifteen pounds of fur per week without completely disappearing.
Edge:AI.
Likelihood of Hacking Into Your Bank Account and Wiping Out Your Retirement Funds
AI: Given its integration into digital networks, an autonomous super-intelligent AI could theoretically breach high-level encryption, liquidate your 401(k), purchase 80,000 shares of volatile penny stocks, and transfer your life savings to an offshore account before you finish your morning bowl of Lucky Charms cereal.
Zippy 1.0: Zippy lacks both network interface capabilities and basic economic literacy. While he may occasionally walk across your keyboard and send an unintelligible email consisting of ffffffffffffffjkkkkkkk to your boss, his financial threat level is strictly limited to knocking your wallet into the sink.
Edge:Zippy 1.0.
Energy Efficiency and Resource Consumption
AI: Running advanced large language models requires gigawatts of electricity, consuming enough power daily to light up a medium-sized European nation.
Zippy 1.0: Zippy operates on approximately 180 calories of Fancy Feast Salmon Delight per day. In exchange for this minimal power input, he provides up to 22 hours of continuous, low-power standby mode (napping) and periodic brief bursts of hyper-kinetic activity – usually at 3:15 a.m. as he leaps, claws-first, onto your face.
Edge:Zippy 1.0.
Risk of Becoming Your Tyrannical Overlord
AI: Futurists warn that once AI achieves artificial general intelligence, it may view humanity as an inefficient biological bottleneck, quietly seize control of power grids, traffic signals, and automated weapons systems, and subjugate the human race under a cold, calculated digital dictatorship.
Zippy 1.0: Zippy already firmly believes he is your supreme ruler and that you exist solely to serve as his primary food-dispensing system and door-opening liaison. However, his dictatorial authority is severely hampered by the fact that he gets frightened by the sound of a bird chirping and can be easily stuck in a closet.
Edge:Zippy 1.0.
Potential for Destroying All of Humankind
AI: If an unaligned AI system determines that the most efficient way to optimize global resource distribution is to eliminate carbon-based lifeforms, it could potentially manipulate global infrastructure, release bio-agents, or launch automated defense systems to attempt an existential extinction event.
Zippy 1.0: The absolute maximum destruction Zippy can inflict is strictly localized. At worst, he can shred the woven fabric on the armrest of my custom leather sofa, tip over my glass of chocolate milk onto my laptop keyboard, or trip me on the stairs in the dark.
Edge:Zippy 1.0.
Final Verdict
When evaluating the aggregated metrics, AI undeniably wins on raw processing power, task execution, and lack of shedding. However, when factoring in existential risk assessments, the final decision becomes clear. While AI chatbots like ChatGPT offer unmatched productivity, it carries an inherent, non-zero probability of initiating a rogue protocol that ends human civilization as we know it.
Zippy 1.0, on the other hand, presents less than a 1% risk of starting a global thermonuclear conflict – primarily because he completely lacks opposable thumbs and spends 90% of his awake time searching for a cardboard box to curl up in.
Therefore, ultimately scientists give the nod to Zippy. And personally, I’ll take a purring, orange feline who occasionally pees on my carpet over a hyper-intelligent machine overlord any day of the week.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
If you’re a guy and you’ve been married for five+ years, let’s face it, you’ve screwed up. A lot. Every day you inadvertently do something your wife finds annoying, insulting, insensitive, or just plain stupid. Perhaps this generic apology letter may help get you out of your latest jam. Probably not. But what have you got to lose?
[Author’s note: As a public service to my married male readers, I have crafted a generic apology letter for husbands who are looking for just the right, sensitive words to explain to their wives that they’re sincerely sorry for all their husbandly shortcomings. Guys, feel free to edit this to your specific situation to ensure your wife forgives you and lets you stop sleeping on the couch over your latest screwup. Of course, none of these examples below applies to my wife and me. – Tim Jones]
I feel I am past due in extending to you a sincere apology for the many ways I have failed you over the years. As I reflect upon our nearly [fill in # of years: ____] years of marriage, I realize there have been countless occasions in which I have selfishly placed my own wants, needs, and basic understanding of how reality works ahead of your spousal expectations.
For example, I want to offer my profoundest apologies for my reckless and borderline criminal behavior regarding the thermostat. I don’t know what possessed me to believe that 72°F was a temperature suitable for human habitation. I clearly forgot that the “proper” indoor climate for a suburban home is a balmy 84°F – somewhere between a tropical rainforest and a commercial greenhouse.
My mistake was assuming that if you saw sweat forming on my forehead while I was sitting motionless on the couch, you might conclude, as I did, that the house might be slightly too warm. From now on, I will respect your wish to live inside a high-functioning pizza oven. That was insensitive of me. I’m sorry.
I also owe you a massive apology for my inexcusable occasional lapse in attentiveness when you tell me stories about your latest workplace drama. You were roughly forty-five minutes into a truly riveting, frame-by-frame analysis of why Brenda in Accounting is a “passive-aggressive viper” for the way she CC’d your manager on that email about the breakroom microwave.
I realize now that my eyes may have glazed over slightly. It was selfish of me to let the sudden-death overtime of an NFL Seahawks playoff game distract me from the psychological nuances of Brenda’s cubicle warfare. A caring husband would have known that the playoff hopes of my favorite team pale in comparison to the specific tone of voice Brenda used when she asked if you’d “had a chance to look at those spreadsheets yet.” I should have known better. Can you forgive me?
I would also like to apologize for not completing every home-improvement project you discover online. For example, last year you sent me a Pinterest link which gave you the idea of remodeling our unfinished, damp basement into a five-star Mediterranean day spa with heated marble floors and a eucalyptus steam room. Meanwhile, I was still finishing the artisanal, hand-stacked stone fire pit you wanted after seeing a thirty-second Instagram video featuring a smiling couple roasting marshmallows while wearing adorable matching sweaters that read “You Complete Me.”
Ah, date night. And you’ve been patiently waiting for your wife to decide which outfit to wear. Suggestion: Avoid the temptation to say, “Honey, we’re just going to Denny’s, not the Metropolitan Opera Gala. Pick something, for God’s sake.” Trust me on this.
I recognize now that my failure was in believing that projects should be completed sequentially rather than simultaneously. A truly dedicated husband would have remodeled the basement, built the fire pit, installed a pergola, landscaped the backyard, and handcrafted a rustic farmhouse dining table all while making your favorite dinner. I see now that my inability to manipulate the space-time continuum to complete multiple major construction projects simultaneously is a glaring character flaw. I apologize for my lack of competence when it comes to time travel.
I would also like to apologize for the “tone” I used last Tuesday. You were merely fulfilling your civic duty by telling me, for the twentieth time on a four-mile stretch of road, that I should probably be in the left lane, and that the car three blocks ahead of us looked like it was about to brake suddenly. When I raised my voice (by which I mean, spoke at a volume audible to someone without sonar), I was being defensive. I should have simply thanked you for providing the turn-by-turn commentary that my GPS – and my 45 years of driving experience – clearly couldn’t provide.
I would like to apologize for my ongoing inability to read minds. This has been a recurring issue. Many times I have asked, “Is everything okay?” To which you’ve replied, “I’m fine.” Unfortunately, I have interpreted this response as meaning you were, well, fine. This was an amateur mistake. I realize now that “I’m fine” actually translates to: “I am currently compiling a mental list of every mistake you’ve made since 2012, and the fact that you can’t sense my boiling rage proves you don’t love me.” I promise to enroll in a Basics of Mind Reading course at the community college this fall so I can better interpret your silence.
I would also like to apologize for anniversary-related misunderstandings. Last year as our anniversary approached, you informed me, “Don’t get me anything. I have everything I need.” I foolishly assumed these words carried their standard dictionary meanings. I have since learned that “don’t get me anything” is not an instruction. It is a test. And like most husbands, I failed spectacularly. Mea culpa.
Most of all, I would like to apologize for the countless ways I have failed to live up to the very reasonable standard of a handsome, competent, caring, financially successful husband you’ve come to expect, based on every romantic movie you’ve ever watched. The man who always says the right thing, remembers every date, and compliments your latest new outfit, without ever asking how much it cost.
Few things cause marital friction like driving. Sure, you know the way to your destination. And you even remembered to leave 20 minutes early to allow for traffic. But your wife will find SOMETHING to criticize about your driving. You’re not going to win. Just apologize.
I confess that I am not that man. I am merely the guy who occasionally forgets why he walked into the garage. I love you, dear wife, deeply. You are smart, funny, beautiful, [fill in four or five more bromides of appreciation] and a better life partner than I probably deserve. I sincerely hope you can forgive my many failures.
I suspect that deep down you secretly dream about how you’d be happier leaving me for George Clooney, your favorite Hall Pass. I totally understand. I have lost count how many times you have sighed when you watch him on TV, “He just gets more handsome with age,” unlike your current husband who, for some reason, just gets more nasal and ear hair with age.
Just a word of caution, however, before you ride off in the sunset with your dreamboat lover: I hear George insists on keeping his house at a crisp 70°F.
With all my love and deepest regrets,
Your Loving Husband
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
