The dictionary has three definitions for mortify. Interestingly, the first and most common is ‘to cause to experience shame, humiliation, or wounded pride.’ The second harkens back to the aesthetes and stoics who mortified their appetites through denial and austerity. Thirdly, and perhaps most tellingly, ‘to cause (a bodily part) to die, as by gangrene’.
Obviously, shame is more widely recognized than self-denial. But both definitions derive from the idea of ‘the little death’.
Well, I am seriously mortified, in every sense of the word at the moment.
Because I seem to always overbook myself in March and April, I invariably sit down to the arduous task of sifting through statements, receipts, checkbooks, etc. in August and September to prepare my taxes. My accountant will take the worksheets I give him up until three weeks before the deadline. This year, I managed to push that off until the very last minute. A slight embarrassment. So I decided to be disciplined and closet myself in the guest bedroom and push through the task this last weekend. I skipped meals, but got almost all of it done. Unfortunately, I became so focused I forgot an important appointment, for an audition. Not me auditioning, but one I was holding for a replacement for one of the roles in Miss Bennett.
My cast members, the auditionees, and the Artistic Director showed up–but not me. People tried to call, but I was ignoring phones, whether deliberately or not. So Becky Udden, ever resourceful woman that she is, taped the auditions rather than waste everyone else’s time.
She finally reached me by text later when I had a late dinner cooking and I sat down to check my class email. The cell phone was charging beside my computer, and so I saw it light up and was mystified when she asked, “Are you okay?”
Bless her heart, she was probably passed annoyed and angry and had arrived at considering sending the police to my house to check on me. So I’m sure my blithe response, “Sure, why?” was not the right note to hit. Nevertheless, she seemed genuinely relieved to find me alive. She may have reconsidered that later.
Once I realized the enormity of my faux pas, I could only respond. “I am mortified.” It seems appropriate in retrospect, as one of the more archaic meanings is to self-flagelate, or quite literally to beat yourself up.
My most sincere apologies to all those involved in my missed appointment. My only excuse is seven straight hours of peering at numbers will shrivel anyone’s brain. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa!
I will review the tapes with Becky and try to come to a timely decision without further inconveniencing anyone.