Too Old to be Mealy-Mouthed--Or is it too late to change?

       On the beach, my husband and I drop our bag and shoes in preparation of walking into the water for a quick swim. A woman approaches, frowning. Her umbrella and chairs are a few yards behind our stuff. “We need that path for our kids.”
       “Sorry,” I say. “We’ll move.”
       The beach at Gulf Shores stretches endlessly in both directions. It is not crowded on this lovely windless morning.
      I think of Kathy Bates in Fried Green Tomatoes. “Face it, girls, I’m older, and I have more insurance,” she says, refusing to move her car.
       My father-in-law once told me, “My wife and I never had a single quarrel.”
       “Never?” My mouth dropped open.
       “Not a one.”
      I found this hard to believe. My parents quarreled about anything and everything
every day of my life. They still do. Where do they find the energy, I wonder sometimes.
       I realize I’ve developed the unfortunate habit of apologizing for things that aren’t my fault. If my husband knocks over a glass of tea, I say, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have put it there,” or “Sorry. I shouldn’t have placed the glasses so close together.”
           Worse yet, he may trip, or nearly trip, over a pair of my shoes left carelessly in his path. Or I may loiter in a doorway, blocking his entrance or exit. Oh, I can find a way to blame myself for just about anything. To keep the peace.
       He’s never abusive. But his jaw tightens, and he mumbles a few words I can’t catch. He may slam a door.
       “What?” I say.
       “Nothing.”
       “Sorry,” I say.
     If a driver pulls out in front of us and he has to brake, he lets out a stream of colorful language. His grip tightens on the steering wheel. The gray-haired man in the other car looks older than us. “Maybe his eyesight isn’t what it once was.” I make excuses for the driver.
       “Then he shouldn’t be driving.”
       If a young driver cuts in and out of traffic, I say, “Maybe she’s in labor.”
      “Why is every light in this house on?” my husband often says.
      “Sorry.”
      Later, he’ll ask, “Why are you reading in the dark?”
      “Sorry,” I say again. How pathetic am I, I ask myself.
       I resolve to stop this pattern, but habits are hard to break. Over the years I’ve had a history of migraines and irritable bowel syndrome. Keeping the peace has its price.
My husband has neither. Perhaps his approach to stress is better. Or my mother’s. Rarely does she hold back with a criticism or a scathing remark. Still she’s had nervous breakdowns. I have not.
       From time to time, I resolve to be more outspoken. Sometimes I follow through, but often I feel worse afterward. I do not like confrontation. I do not like to hurt anyone’s feelings. My scalp tingles. My blood pressure rises. This too has its price.
       When my husband does something minor to annoy me, I may mumble a few unintelligible words.
       “What?” he says.
       “Nothing.”
     As always, life and its choices remain a mystery. And who doesn’t like a good mystery?