If there was an unobtrusive southern fly on the wall watching me the last few months, it is likely she would say, “Well, bless your heart.”
I spent six years as a Yankee expat putting in time in both South Carolina and Alabama. When I first heard this phrase, I thought it wonderful that someone I barely knew was giving me a Godly blessing. It was the South after all, where random people approached me out of nowhere to ask if I had a church.
After living down in Dixie for awhile, however, it dawned on me that these words were not necessarily the kindly blessing I had interpreted. “Bless your heart” is the southern equivalent to speaking slowly while smiling at someone of uncertain mental acumen. Well, “Bless my heart” because I screwed up in the most stupid sort of way. Continue reading Bless My Heart
