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Conversations about regret usually go exactly like this: “Regrets? I have no regrets. Everything I have done in my life has made me who I am today.”
Okay. Well, that’s a steamy (expletive) sandwich.
There is just no way that in all our years here on planet Earth we have not one regret. I’m not buying it. I’m telling you, it’s not possible.
I talk to my kids a lot about esoteric crap like this, because I think it’s important for them to dig a little deeper into their spoiled souls for examination of topics other than: “When will marijuana be legalized for recreational use in PA?” However, I never get a straight answer. Although I attempt to entice them into conversations about subjects like regret or pride or disappointment, all I receive are answers like: “My one regret is drinking that homemade (wine) last Christmas.” I’ve not used his name to protect his identity, but if you know my family, you have already identified blondie boy. He loves his drink. (Eye roll).
People, I have so many regrets we would need every page of this Life section to list them all. I don’t understand why we’re so afraid to admit the deep doubts we’ve had in our lifetimes. It’s because it’s viewed as a weakness, and we Americans don’t like to admit weakness. We’d rather portray ourselves as overachieving heroes who have never blundered. A regret is a mistake. And it’s okay! In fact, I find it completely relatable and endearing. No one likes a pompous wind bag. Everyone likes someone who can admit a softness deep in their core.
My regrets are many. How far back would you like me to reach? Because, readers, I can go back to the days of choosing regrettable ensembles to sport in first grade. And this included feather boas and rainbow suspenders. Remember, I was the fifth child. If I was still alive by 5 o’clock every evening, my mother considered that successful parenting. Boas were acceptable.
I know I regret not having more children. I bore three, but I feel a vast emptiness now that everyone has left skid marks out of the Valley; I was caught off guard by the crushing sadness their mass exodus left behind. Of course, I see them at holidays, but when I’m on my hands and knees scrubbing up the entrails of the bad decision called (wine), there’s not much time for chit chat.
Also, I really regret being too strict of a parent. This is the truth. I don’t know from where I got the idea that I had to be such a stern disciplinarian and never waiver from my guidelines. When I reminisce about punishments I meted out, I realize that compared to my parent’s penalties for misdeeds, they were rather tepid, yet I still wish I bent just a little bit. My daughter always reminds me that I was hardest on her and documents she was the best child ever. But was she the best child ever because I was strict? I don’t know. But I wish I did things a little differently when it came to ridiculous curfews and confiscation of electronics and later, vehicles. I really thought my ways were the best ways and Nancy’s, well, were not.
Frank and I agree: Regrets, I’ve had a few. But then, I did it my way. Regrets are just doubts, wrapped in a mistake, served with a side of lessons learned. Most important lesson? Don’t drink the homemade (wine).