My friend Angelique volunteered to go grocery shopping with me. When we got back to my place she helped me carry in the many bags of groceries required to fill my neglected refrigerator. "I meant to go Monday, but I got sidetracked catching up on my magazine reading," I told her. How many times had I blamed my magazines for not getting something done? I'd mow the lawn, but I just got a new Glamour. I was going to have my tires rotated, but I couldn't afford to after renewing my subscriptions. I was going to fall madly in love with you, but Redbook says we're incompatible. But, but, but. If it's not one thing it's another. When did I become one of them -- one of the Blame Shifters -- the people who are never at fault? We're a growing breed we makers of excuses. Modern times have allowed us to, in fact, encouraged us to relieve ourselves the burden of being an adult. But when does it end? Do we need a magazine to tell us we have reached maturity? When do we stop making excuses and start taking responsibility?
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