For all we have to apologize for in the course of human history — and in the bumbling walk of our daily lives — isn't it ironic that men fail so badly at the simple act of saying sorry?

Presidents refuse to do it.

Wayward evangelists go over the top with it.

Pro athletes loft it out of bounds.

The guy who rear-ends you on the H-1 says it, then takes it back when the insurance guys start calling.

I'd like to think that this isn't a matter, as some women argue, of us thinking we're never wrong. More often, the problem lies in having to acknowledge it.

This is where we rehash all that business about men being socialized to be strong and authoritative. An admission of wrong, then, breaches the armor and leaves us vulnerable to rivals, nemeses and sweetie-darling over there holding the scorecard.

Even those who recognize that apologizing when it's appropriate strengthens one's position can find it hard to say "I'm sorry" with the proper humility.

And humility in proportion is all the act requires. Public self-flagellation (a la Jimmy Swaggart) is egotism. So too, in a lesser sense, is taking the public fall for something that clearly isn't your fault.

An apology, at its essence, is an acknowledgement that one has not only done something wrong, but that this wrong has affected someone else.

To insert one's own interests into the equation — an excuse, a justification, a plea for forgiveness — undermines the intent.

There are also those who eschew the verbal apology because it feels like false effort. Between men, the simplest apologies are sometimes the most effective. A knowing nod. A humble frown. My bad.

Between sexes, I've found it better to err on the side of the verbal, even if it's not immediately clear what you've done wrong.

I'm terribly sorry for, um, mumble-mumble-murph. Mea culpa. Let's go eat.

Oops. I'm sorry, was that offensive? My bad.