Skip to main content

THE QUESTION

My family belongs to an informal group of 12 to 15 families who get together a few times a year. Our families have a particular event/situation in common that brings us together. Some of us get together far more often than others.

Recently, there has been talk of "us" taking a trip to a foreign, family-oriented destination. I was under the misapprehension the idea was being floated to the entire group, so when an e-mail came with preliminary information I responded by forwarding to the group as a whole. Now I find out the plans were meant for only a few of us. I truly thought the purpose was to get the whole group together.

Other than apologize to the "planner," what on earth can I do to undo the damage?

THE ANSWER

I think I can help you.

But before I feed your dilemma into the state-of-the-art problem-solving supercomputers here at Damage Control Central, I would like to extract a little promise from you.

Promise me that before you hit "send," "forward," "reply" or especially "reply all," you will infallibly perform a brief ritual (developed by Damage Control's crack team of behavioural scientists).

Pause. Push chair back from computer. Knit fingers behind head. Stare long and hard at e-mail on computer screen.

And ask yourself: "Is there something I'm forgetting/overlooking/not thinking about here? Is there anything in this e-mail that could wind up hurting me or anyone else?"

Only if the answer to both questions is an unequivocal "no" - then and only then should you venture to press "send."

I don't think I'm the first person to observe that our technology has evolved faster than our ability to deal with it. All I have to do is witness my own mother's bafflement at the intricacies of her cellphone to know this is true.

(And here's a million-dollar idea I give away free, ladies and gentlemen: cellphone classes for seniors. You would clean up. Meet once a week for hour-long seminars on "How to Answer," "Your Contact List" and "Keeping It Charged." At the end of two semesters, a suitable-for-framing diploma.)

It's the same with e-mail.

Gather round, kids, while I tell you a little story of "Ye Olden Days." Once upon a time there were these ancient artifacts called "letters." Believe it or not, before you could send them you had to stuff them in an envelope, lick the envelope, put this thing called a "stamp" on them - which, interestingly, you also had to lick - then walk to this artifact called a "mailbox" and drop the letter in.

And you see, kids, in between all this licking and stuffing and walking you had lots of time to think, to question and reconsider the contents of your "letter" before it was sent.

But with the advent of e-mail, people often send first and think second - which can be a disastrous sequence of events.

Consider yourself lucky. Consider yourself warned. (I'm a big believer God sends us little warnings, little jolts of juice from the mainframe, which we ignore at our peril.) You got off relatively lightly. The ether is full of stories of people who have hit "forward," "send," "reply" or "reply all" under the wrong circumstances and lost their jobs or shattered their reputations or marriages.

At least nothing dire happened.

Still, your situation is not ideal.

The damage here is two-tiered.

First, there's the damage you've inflicted upon this "planner" person.

Then there's the damage that, thanks to you, he must now inflict on other people.

So, yes, apologize for the former; and help him deal with the latter.

You've put him in an extremely awkward position. He has to reveal to a number of his friends that he was planning to invite others but not them to his little getaway.

Then, since they may have felt that by receiving your forwarded e-mail they were implicitly invited, he may have to disinvite some of them.

Which is awful. Retracting an invitation is perhaps the most awkward, egregious and infuriating thing you can do to someone, the lowest of all social errors.

That's a grudge people nurse forever. That's how you make enemies. I have several friends whose faces cloud over when they tell their "I was disinvited" stories; and you can see that, no matter how long ago it happened, the pain, the affront, is as fresh as if it were yesterday.

So help him, advise him and stand by his side as he deals with the fallout. You put him in this position; help him shoulder the burden.

(Though you don't need to be too abject about it: after all, if it was an honest mistake, maybe his original e-mail wasn't clear enough.)

Personally, if I were this guy, I'd cancel the whole trip and re-plan it at some later date, just to avoid ruffling everyone's feathers.

But if he's not inclined and/or it's impossible, perhaps an e-mail should be sent out to the group. Is there some non-personal reason that some people were not invited? If not, try to think of one, such as this was discussed earlier, the reservations were made.

It doesn't matter how vague and confusing your reasons are. As long as it's nothing personal, people don't mind being left out. If you can't think of anything else to say, just blame "the numbers" and offer to have another, more inclusive, junket at some later date.

Offer to help the planner compose this e-mail. Maybe even offer to send one yourself, explaining that you mistakenly forwarded his e-mail and so on.

If you compose it right, upfront and straight-shooting, people will let you off the hook. It was an honest mistake.

So take your time getting the verbiage just right. Humble but not too humble, know what I mean?

And as soon as it sounds good, smile at your own virtuosity and immediately press send, yeah?

Wrong! Remember your promise. Remember our little ritual: Before we hit "send," what do we do?

David Eddie is a screenwriter and the author of Chump Change and Housebroken: Confessions of a Stay-at-Home Dad.

I've made a huge mistake

Have you created any damage that needs controlling? Send your dilemmas to damage@globeandmail.com, and include your hometown and a daytime contact number so we can follow up with any queries.

Interact with The Globe