Humble pie

Being a person who works with words all day, every day, I tend to have some opinions about correct use of the English language. And, when someone makes a mistake, there’s at least a tiny part of me that raises an eyebrow and begins to feel superior. Even though I try not to. Everyone has their strengths, right? Someone may write “they’re” when they mean “their,” but they might be brilliant at crunching numbers, or manipulating all those pipes under the sink until the plumbing works again, or getting the balance of fruit and cornstarch just right so the cherry pie doesn’t run all over the place (if anyone knows this trick please call me).

Still, it’s hard to quiet the voice in my head that mentally edits a person when he or she says, “I couldn’t care less” when they really mean they could care less. And so on.

Except now, I really have to hold the judgment, even the unspoken kind. Because now I am making the same sorts of mistakes myself. 

For some reason, my fingers have been slipping on my keyboard. I type “hear” instead of “here.” This is not just spell-check gone awry. It is some subconscious mechanism that keeps making mistakes I thought I would never make, not since fifth grade. Today, my keyboarding fingers made up an entirely new word: disatisfication. It reminds me of “comfterful,” a word my cousin Susan made up. Comfterful, comfortful, comfortable. Or “draweau,” my little-girl word for bureau. It has drawers, so why wouldn’t it be “draweau?” Also Clara’s adorable “Pizza Hot” for Pizza Hut.

I actually like disatisfication. It sort of draws out the idea of being really dissatisfied – and then I don’t have to use that evil word that some teacher somewhere declared unnecessary and which I subsequently consider amateur:  “very.”

But I digress. Another pet peeve. 

This humility extends beyond language. Some imbecile driving in front of me neglects to get in the left turn lane on time, but I cannot fume, because I did the same thing just yesterday, looking sheepishly from the right lane as I tried to cut in front of the line of left-turning cars. Or, I feel disdainful of the women who pass the check around after lunch in a restaurant, reluctant to calculate the tip themselves (“math class is tough,” whines Teen Talk Barbie) – until one day (despite the fact that I really do know how to do this!) I somehow manage to tip the waiter 50 percent instead of 15 percent.

Good thing the check was a small one. Even so: That’s some expensive humble pie.