Dianne Williamson: Sorry, but I’m not sorry

Dianne Williamson The Telegram & Gazette
Worcester Telegram & Gazette columnist Dianne Williamson on Wednesday, April 22, 2015.

I’m sorry. But of all the things I fear in this world, being perceived as rude has never topped the list.

Last week, an op-ed in The New York Times once again considers the age-old question of why women apologize so much, especially when compared to men. One theory, according to author Sloane Crosley, “is that being perceived as rude is so abhorrent to women that we need to make ourselves less obtrusive before we speak up.”

Whatever the reason, we need to stop it. So in an effort to set a more positive tone for my gender, I unapologetically offer a list of flaws, bad habits, guilty pleasures, embarrassing secrets and darkest thoughts: I cannot get enough of “The Real Housewives of New York City.” Also, “... Beverly Hills.”

Sometimes I fill empty water bottles with tap water and serve them to my friends, because they never notice the difference.

For dinner recently, I made a batch of brownies.

While sitting in the backseat on a trip to Maine, I once handed the driver a Fig Newton with my toes and he never noticed.

I don’t like to go to bed at night and I hate getting up in the morning.

I’m always eager for extreme weather and was secretly disappointed that nothing bad happened Tuesday night.

Forty years later, I still sometimes dream that I’m back in high school.

My brothers and I make dark but awfully funny jokes about my mother and her Alzheimer’s disease.

We were apparently so lacking in imagination as children that we owned a pair of cats named Blackie and Grayie.

No matter how many times I’ve seen it, the end of “Cinema Paradiso” always makes me cry.

I ridicule people on Facebook for their bad grammar, humble brags and obnoxious selfies.

I’ve been known to commandeer golf carts at vacation resorts and take people for late-night joy rides.

Before it became The Hanover Theatre, Showcase Cinemas was the perfect place to sneak in through a side door.

The Kenny Chesney song “Don’t Blink” is incredibly corny, but I love it. Ditto for “Looks Like We Made it,” by Barry Manilow and pretty much anything by John Denver.

Nothing is more fun than dancing around the living room with friends. Also, sometimes alone.

I frequently dilute my wine glass with water and ice cubes.

I sometimes fear that my brain has shrunk to the size of a raisin.

I once got hired for a summer job on the Cape at a supermarket’s sandwich deli, and only when I rode my bike to the market in Yarmouth did I learn that the deli was in Sandwich.

I overspend on bedding.

I’m so oblivious that my cleaning lady recently bought me a new shower curtain.

Sometimes I talk to my cat and am actually annoyed when she slinks away.

I rarely wear a seat belt.

Tuesday night, while reporting the news, CNN’s bubbly Erin Burnett said to viewers, “Guess what?” and I wanted to choke her.

One summer I got a spray tan and lied that it was real.

I’m so addicted to lip balm that I keep it under the couch cushions.

I was mildly depressed for two whole days when “Game of Thrones” ended for the season.

Never in my life have I mowed a lawn.

I once swore that I’d never, ever, read on a Kindle. Now I love my Kindle.

I think candlepin bowling is more fun than playing golf.

I’m personally ecstatic that Donald Trump is running for president.

While surfing the Web, I pause on cat videos, because I am a middle-aged stereotype.

I hate to pump my own gas, probably because last summer I mistakenly filled my SUV with diesel fuel.

I consider chicken thighs to be one of the four major food groups.

My penmanship appears to be the work of a deeply troubled 10-year-old.

I’d rather contract Ebola than sit through a city council meeting.

I’m such a Luddite that I’m tempted to retire each time we switch to a new computer system.

Recently, I tried to convince my friends to shut out the lights and play hide and seek.

Sometimes I shop online for shoes when I should be working. Hence, columns like these. Sorry.

Dianne Williamson writes for The Worcester (Mass.) Telegram & Gazette.