No Regrets

     Living life with “no regrets” seems to be a privilege reserved only for people on reality shows or those with obituaries. It always feels odd to me to hear such a presumptuous statement claimed proudly, as if there’s something virtuous about being oblivious.

     If it’s past 10:00am, I have likely already accrued a cornucopia of regrets.

     “Why didn’t I get up earlier…”

     “I wish I had worn the other shirt…”

     “I should have walked the other way…”

     My collection of periodic episodes of self-disappointment knoweth no end. En masse, my list of regrets would not fit on a scroll long enough to reach the end of a city block. I could hold a press conference at the conclusion of every day detailing my shortcomings (which is largely what I imagine marriage to be), and still have to cut myself off.

     Regret, to me, is just as much a part of the machine as joy and sadness and hope and fear. It keeps the tension. I’m sure there is a healthy balance between examining one’s past and looking forward to the future, but I have experienced few moments of that perfect, soulful equilibrium. And I regret that.