There’s nothing quite as prevalent as the public apology, and certainly nothing quite as… There’s nothing quite as prevalent as the public apology, and certainly nothing quite as gratifying. Everyone loves listening to famous/important people at their lowest, begging us, the little people, to forgive them while we wait to pass judgment with the cold, efficient maliciousness of Caesar’s downward-pointing thumb. Yet days — even hours — later, we are somehow left feeling empty and unfulfilled as ever. Why? Because more often than not, these so-called regrets are just more lies dolloped onto a giant plate of delicious, delicious insincerity.

According to a recent study, this feeling of skepticism toward apologies is an increasing trend. Researchers from Erasmus University in the Netherlands found that “while people wanted an apology and rated it as highly valuable, the actual apology is less satisfying than predicted.”

Basically, this study says that although in theory apologies seem great, actual real-life apologies suck, because no one actually means them.

At first glance, this study seems just another no-duh method of spending grant money to statistically prove the obvious (like the recent University of Minnesota study that discovered that people get drunk at tailgates, shockingly!). But after a second, more contemplative look, this study actually uncovers a sad truth: We, as a people, are so cynical that we automatically assume all apologies are disingenuous.

Pondering this, I suddenly felt the pangs of lost innocence. At what age did we become so jaded, so relentlessly untrusting, that underneath our cold, hard exteriors there’s just a colder, harder interior? (Age 10 or 11 is my guess — about the same age I realized my parents weren’t perfect and that Brad Pitt wasn’t a viable romantic option.)

Did anyone actually believe Tiger Woods’ 14-minute, dramatic, pause-ridden apology? No. Because he recited it with about as much passion as Ben Affleck exhibited in “The Voyage of the Mimi.” And for the record, young Ben Affleck, I did not believe for one second that you were actually concerned about the theft of ancient Mayan artifacts.

Or how about political apologies? Year after year, our elected officials have apologized for everything from unsavory comments and indiscretions to blaspheming his holiness Rush Limbaugh (seriously, so many Republicans apologized for comments they’d made criticizing Limbaugh that the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee engineered an online fill-in-the-blank apology prototype titled, “I’m Sorry, Rush”).

I’ll admit that every once in a while, I sense sincerity in an apology — and like a vulture to a mutilated road-ravaged deer, so do I gorge myself upon this rare morsel of truly pathetic remorse.

Take, for instance, former Gov. Mark Sanford, R-S.C. True, upon first inspection, Sanford is just another low-life, degenerate, philandering, job-abandoning conservative. But throughout his rambling public apology, during which he apologized to his wife, his sons, his friends, his constituents and pretty much everyone else in the country for cheating on his wife and abandoning the state without notice to rendezvous with his Argentinean mistress, Sanford choked up. We saw real emotion — his voice cracked, his posture sagged and the bags under his eyes trembled like two great bowls of Jell-O Jigglers.

During the speech, Sanford admitted that he “spent the last five days crying.” And I’m not talking about Glenn-Beck, eye-drop-inspired tears, but real goddamn tears — the things Lifetime movies are made of.

Unfortunately — and I never thought I’d say these words — there are not enough Mark Sanfords in the world. So many apologies these days are robotic, mere algorithms: one part solemnity, five parts ticking off as many personal apologies as Oscar winners do thank-yous.

And although public apologies are often the least authentic — after all, celebrities and public figures have the most to gain by winning back over the masses — the sincerity of everyday apologies is taken for granted.

E-mail Molly at [email protected].