Pride is a funny thing.

Well, not so much “funny” as it is sad.

In my family, very few of us really have the balls to tell each other how sorry we are that we offended a person or hurt their feelings. Either you suck it up or forget it ever happened.

In a recent episode of drama encrusted events, a woman who everyone now considers to be on a rampage pretty much exploded.

Just went KA-BOOM! For no apparent reason.

Being the most un-confrontational person one could ever meet that I am, I stood down. Even attempted to leave.

Sparing details, a few minutes later, my feelings are posted on Facebook (Yes, I’m one of those people) and it isn’t long before the subject of said status is calling my mother.

I’m an adult.

Or at least something like it.

Have a problem with me? Let’s talk it out. Don’t call my mother.

Seems there’s this whole “misunderstanding” about what happened earlier today, which my mother actually helped me to sort out.

Now I feel bad. But not bad enough to issue any apologies. The woman in me stands by what I said and how I feel.

The peacemaker in me disagrees.

My pride disagrees with the peacemaker.

So, here I am at a crossroads. I know for a fact that I won’t receive an apology in return, but should that keep me from making peace?

Eh. I won’t lose any sleep over it. Procrastination says it can wait.