Admitting being wrong

 

 "Je regret, je regret, je regret. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I don't know how many times I said that to the receptionist where I worked when she called to tell me that once again the number I'd given her to fax was wrong. My ability to transpose numbers exceeds my ability to make typos many times over.

"You're one of the few people who admit it is their fault," she said to me.

I don't like admitting I'm wrong, but it is easier to admit to it. If nothing more it stops an argument when you tell the other person that they are right. It is often so unexpected that they may splutter on for a while, before realizing they won. The advantage is that admitting one is wrong short circuits ongoing discussion and to get back to something more interesting.

I do not admit I'm wrong, when I think I'm right, however. Never.

When my daughter was little, each September we would sit down and work out her house rules for the year. The last was always, "if you do something wrong, tell your mother before she finds out." My daughter originally would do something, then confess and say, "Aren't you glad I told you?" We had to point out that the rule wasn't a license to deliberately do something wrong and then confess.

Early in our renewed relationship, my husband and I established a "no pussyfooting rule."  We realized the challenge of putting our lives together between two continents and three countries had enough challenges. 

We've been know to say when about to confess to some error, "Your idiot husband" or "Your idiot wife." We also admit to our idiosyncrasies of which we are both guilty. 

We are allowed to do some eye rolling and head shaking depending on the degree of the error.