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With some disdain and a great deal of steel, she begins again. |
| I've always been curious about those individuals I've encountered who maintain that they don't 'have time for regret'. I flat out don't get it. How can you not regret the hairstyle you had in the 80's? At least one person you let kiss your lips? The fact that you ignored the questionable expiration date on the meat in the refrigerator which you fed to an unsuspecting partner (he retched for days afterward, wondering what he'd eaten that caused it and you shrugged your shoulders, feigning innocence)? Surely, one looks back and sees the things they could have done differently and wishes they had, but is this categorically 'regret'? I've always been sort of predisposed to the quick sting of heavy-handed anguish. If it doesn't come looking for me, I will go looking for it. It's not that I enjoy it, nor do I feel I get much out of it. It's reflexive to me, as easy as breathing, and often I will spiral into it without realizing what all the blurring was about. My regrets have been as great as they've been microscopic, but each one has left a dent in my self-perception, leaving me shaky and nauseous, strengthening only the notion that I am pathetic and dumb. The worst part being that I often make the same mistake over and over, even when I know it's wrong. I know it from start to sloppy finish. How could I not think I'm a little daft, then? Like a couple days ago, when I realized that I'd budgeted my time off all wrong, that I am in danger of causing serious financial problems for M. and myself if I don't find a decent job in the near future. With the fear came the cacophonous clang of regrets, each one pushing the adrenaline through my veins a little faster than the one before it. I could have gone to school, I could have taken the job I was offered so many months ago (I didn't want it, but it was a job, and I could have done it), I could have written something worthwhile, I could have gone to the gym (okay, even I'm laughing at that one), I could have made my own jam, I could have...and it goes on. What I did, instead, was feel badly about myself for the first bit, having been laid off from a job which I hated but was begrudgingly good at, and chased my tail in the latter half in a vain attempt to find the purpose of my life in the meat of it. I am no closer to knowing what I'm supposed to be doing now than I did before I was forced to think about it. All my loves, passions and likes don't seem to be leading toward any kind of concrete goal. Dabbling in poetry is really just a hobby, a personal attempt to feel talented at something beyond introspection. Cooking is fun when it's an experiment rather than a job. Reading won't get me far, nor will watching film after film while nibbling on popcorn or unsalted pretzels. Oh, I wish it could, but let's be real. So, instead I have been on the verge of exploding with self-pitying, fearful tears despite the party I had to attend yesterday, the one where I was meant to be bubbly and gracious while in the company of my very best, mostly successful friends. I could not tell them that I feel like a failure. It would not have suited anyone well at all. Instead, I wore a smile through the meal of pasty, whole wheat pasta and canned tomato sauce. I giggled through the nostalgic voyages we went on when a long-dead name revived itself through the memory of someone else. I got to the end of the night without incident, and I fell into a deep sleep, wishing it would claim me for good. So, yes, I regret that I have a problem with self-motivation and that most of the bad elements of my life are a by-product of this inexplicable affliction. I wish I were more together as a person, a better role-model for my child, but wishing it and making it happen are two different things. The former implies that I want it to happen to me, while the latter means that I would have to put all the effort into making the change. Obviously, it is my way to stick to the former. While I know it isn't working for me, I haven't figured out how to get past it. Not yet, anyway.There are some regrets, though, which I would like to liberate to a different category altogether. Some are no longer painful memories, while others were difficult situations which I recognize as having been unavoidable and essential. First, I do not regret that I didn't go out with Mr. Six String back in '89. Had I done so, I would have most likely been de-virginized and forgotten before I had a chance to realize what happened. It might have been good, but me being me, I would not have recovered from it well and would have hated myself for being such a cliché. On the very off-chance he would have fallen madly in love with me and never wanted to leave me, I'd have ruined his future as guitar tech to all the mega-famous bands he currently works for. I wouldn't have been able to handle that lifestyle and would have told him he had to give it up for me. It isn't likely that would have happened so the only probable outcome would have been my devirginization and dismissal. The only thing I would have changed about that night when he asked me was I would not have said I had to go home because my mom was expecting me. It would have been better to leave that situation with a wave of superiority, saying something like 'I've got other plans'. If could go back and do it again, I'd have tried a little harder not to sound like a virgin even if I was one. I would have liked to have been slick. Second, I do not regret my awkward dismissal of the other long-haired demi-god (the one who said he ate rebels for breakfast) who followed me to the bathroom in the club that night. At the time I thought I was demure when I moved past him, but I remember now that I was bright red and giggling madly as I did so, and probably didn't come off as mysterious so much as ridiculous. No matter, though, because he would have been a mistake also and I would never have wanted to be known as 'Mrs. Rebel-Eater'. It sounds as stupid now as it did then. He was beautiful, though, with long black hair and piercing, dark eyes. Can't imagine what he looks like now, or if he still drives that camaro. I do not regret the thirteen years with R., and I do not regret that they ended. Okay, here's a major one: I do not regret my decision to not attend university back in 1990. I wish I could have, but I know that my anxiety would not have handled it well. I was not excited about it, never looked forward to it, and started having panic attacks all summer before going (I didn't know what they were at the time). I lasted something like two weeks before turning my back on it, causing everyone to think it was 'all about a boy', when really it was all about my terror and belief I'd go mad if I stayed. What I do hope is that I one day get my degree, that I actually go to class and learn because the learning had never been the problem. It was the fear, always the fear. I want to learn, and I want the diploma in a frame on the wall, but nothing in me wants the dorm life, the feeling of detachment from what I know. I am wishful that it happens at some point, and that I don't let the dream die. I do not really regret all the subterfuge and deception of my first encounters with M. I know I should because it was wrong in so many ways, but it made it all so much more passionate and glamourous. The secret meetings, the picnics in unknown parks, the stolen kisses, the hotel room with the green apples on the nightstands...Scandalous, while at the same time comforting. I never wanted anything or anyone as much as I did him and the exquisiteness of that longing is something I can't ever conceive of matching. The way my body reacted to his touch, knowing it was forbidden was delicious. And it lead me into a life which feels more like me. I can't feel badly about it. I no longer regret moving here. While it is not my dream city, it is easy to get where I want to go without much trouble. After visiting my sisters this weekend, I came to realize how much I do not miss my former surroundings with the endless streams of cars and the lineups at every checkout. I like walking slowly if I want to, or looking at the water while sipping on a coffee. It used to be that the sights were incidental, but now I recognize the value in moving at my own pace and seeing what I want to see. I can do that where I am now, and while I miss my family and friends, breathing freely has its benefits, too. And, frankly, I do not really regret the last year of my life in which I elected to stay home instead of looking for a job. Though I've been hyperventilating a little over the past couple days with regard to my financial situation, I was home with my daughter for an entire year, something I'd been wanting since I returned to work after a year of maternity leave. I longed to be with her, to make her lunches and to cuddle her on the couch whenever I wanted to. I got my wish, and though I am frightened about the future, I have to admit that I am grateful that I got the opportunity to be with my girl. There are regrets, yes, but none of them have to do with her. There are chances I probably shouldn't have let go by, but when you love the people in your life and know they love you back, it's tough not to see how all the steps and missteps have brought you to where you are. I don't know if there's such a thing as destiny, but the possibility of it means I can ease up on myself and all my blown chances just a little. The hair I had in the 80's, though...yeah, there's just no way to reason that out.   |
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