‘Where’s my phone?’
Constantly. Every day. Without fail. It’s become a bit of a joke. But ohhh no, it’s not a joke to me! The panic, the worry that rushes through my head – thoughts of some stranger with my precious phone, running up expensive phone calls. And then, after those few horrendous moments… I find it.
But my worry is justified, I left my phone down the side of a Starbucks armchair once and some lovely lady took it home with her to keep it safe. I had to go and pick it up from her house, what a kind person.
Anyway, the other day it happened, I couldn’t find it. I was at home so I thought it couldn’t have gone far. So this was a very mild panic. I searched all the usual places – my pockets, the deep dark depths of my bag which is so big that sometime I feel like I could lose myself in there. Down the side of the sofa, every nook and cranny of the house. Nowhere.
Mild panic started to increase to full blown phone loss. Worst case scenarios set in, imagining someone on my Facebook or Twitter, stealing my photos, my details…
Then my mum piped up ‘Could it be outside?’
I replied in a tone that suggests she was being a complete idiot, ‘Outside?? Er… No mum, don’t be ridiculous’. I walked off in a huff and continued looking for my dearly beloved communication device. I searched every place possible. The panic now unbearable. Breathing was becoming erratic. Arms were flying around in a sort of ‘I don’t know what to do’ fashion, and I was huffing. (Ok, I admit, at times I’m a little dramatic).
And then she said it again. ‘Meg, do you think it could be outside?’
I paused… and thought ‘Well I HAD walked up the road four hours ago, my phone WAS in my pocket then, but surely not…’ Without really realising what I was doing, I ran. Out the door and up the road. It was dark and rainy, I kept running, searching every inch of pavement.
And then, I saw it, lying helplessly on a grassy bank. I knelt down and lovingly cradled it in my arms, wiping off the rain and the mud, or at least I hope it was mud.
I turned around and there was my mum, getting absolutely soaked, looking everywhere too.
I shouted ‘Got it!’… and we walked home in silence. I found it because of her.
Something in me wanted to say ‘I’m sorry’, but I just couldn’t say it. Saying it would have admitted that I was wrong. So I muttered ‘Well done’ – what a cop out.
I got into the warm and felt awful, she’d been trying to help, even out in the rain and I’d treated her like an idiot. I knew deep down that I had to say sorry. When I said goodnight to her I pushed all my pride aside and apologised. It was hard, really hard, but I knew it was the right thing to do.
In fact, I think we all know deep down when we need to apologise – when we’ve hurt someone or said something we know we shouldn’t.
So, don’t let the moment pass if you need to say ‘I’m sorry’ – just say it and mean it, you know you should. They’re just two words, okay they might be two hard words, but they do the world of good.