I definitely have lots of regrets–don’t you? If you’re somehow living out the motto “No Regrets”, I somehow suspect that you ain’t lifing right. Or you’re a psychopath. But who am I to judge?
One’s relationship with regrets can be a tricky thing. You have to hold them loosely and tightly at the same time. On one hand, you really need to take Elsa’s advice1https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aeHJHjkwDuM and let. That. Shit . Go. It may be cliche, but don’t get hung up on things that you can’t change. You done ----- up son. Give it up already.
On the other hand, I think it’s worth reflecting on your regrets,2Misappropriation of #NeverForget if for nothing else to avoid repeating unnecessary mistakes. If you want to take it to the next level, you can even examine what it reveals about yourself, at which point you can ask whether or not you want to be that person that made such a regrettable life choice. Then use that knowledge to move towards being that [presumably] better person.
On occasion, I suspect you will find me waxing short about various regrets I’ve had thus far in my life. If it isn’t clear by now, I am pretty capable of being quite a poopy person acting in a rather poopy-head fashion.3www.thepointofthestory.com/the-olde-timey-wheelchair,4www.thepointofthestory.com/shower-tips-part-1,5www.thepointofthestory.com/a-pound-casual-asshat I like to cling to the self-protecting hope that that is not who I am to the core. A key part of that hope is the notion that “what is important” is the willingness to own thy shit–and use it as all-natural organic fertilizer and in turn grow as a person/citizen of society. Also, in cases where I regret how I made other people feel, I think a part of me verbalizing my regret is trying to apologize in the sincerest way I know how.
Now, all that being said, I have to confirm your worst fears: no, I’m not really going to talk much about the specific nuances of the concept of regret, as I may have led some to believe by the last few paragraphs. I will at some point share more relevant stories, but for now I thought I would lightly ramble since I was on the topic, and eventually those other stories are going to need some broader context anyway. And also, I’m attempting to write past my bedtime, which is when I run the risk of becoming so incoherent that I actually become more coherent than my natural state.
Honestly, my motivation for today’s story was to set the Dear Reader’s expectations that I will on occasion serve up shorter, less interesting stories, in hopes of tempering the inevitable disappointment. Even more honestly, I’m really trying to lower the bar for what I can pass off as a blog post and save myself from the temptation to nervously talk on end just to fill the air. Clearly, I’m not doing the best job of exhibiting the virtues of brevity. I really just wanted to type a few quick paragraphs and get to bed at a decent time, but nooooooo.
But, I digress. In spite of my best efforts (really, though?!?).
After all that meandering prefacing, I actually do have a regret that I wanted to share with you. One evening when I was a single young buck in grad school, I was waiting to go home at the bus stop in downtown Chapel Hill. Nearby sat a modestly attractive young lady, probably about my age, eating a sandwich. And directly in between us sat a down-on-his-luck middle-aged man of lower socio-economic status.
By and large, I was minding my own ----- business, paying no real mind to my two companions, when I noticed the guy had started talking to the girl. Or at least talking at the girl. Either that, or he was talking to her sandwich. Honestly, it wasn’t really clear. He was asking her how her sandwich was, but it was almost…sexual. I could sense the smarm coming off of him, but I wasn’t sure if the object of his lust was the girl or the food.
She could definitely sense the smarm, too, because she was clearly very uncomfortable with the situation. So here’s what I regret: I regret I sat there and watched, and continued to mind my own ----- business. Maybe I was entranced by the situation, as my mind was stuck trying to figure out what was really going on. Or maybe a part of me was relieved that he was bothering someone else rather than me about whatever it was that he wanted.
Fortunately, she just ignored him and he hopped on the next bus. After the immediate tension broke, the realization of my missed opportunity smacked me upside the head. As soon as I sensed her unease, I totally could have and should have jumped on that grenade for her sake, so to speak. In action that would have been as simple as striking up a conversation with him and diverting his leering stare away from her. Had I really been on my game I would have offered to buy him a sandwich.
But alas, I didn’t, and I have to live with the consequences of my inaction. Which are surprisingly pretty much non-existent, save for my self-assigned sense of cowardice.
There is a real underlying moral to be mulled over here, though: at what point does one decide to go from being a simple by-stander to a reluctant, yet responsible, hero? Recently, on two separate occasions, I had to decide whether to call 911 on behalf of neighbors I barely knew, and get myself thrown into the middle of their situations. Ultimately, I did step in on their behalf both times, but not without what seemed like an eternity of uncertainty as to what my role and responsibility really was.
I don’t know if I can speak for anyone else, but for me these experiences were…surreal. At least surreal in the sense that the back of my mind kept trying to figure out “Is this really happening?” It took a surprisingly long time before I snapped out of it and was even aware of the question of what I could do to help. The real takeaway for me from all of this is that it really is worth running such thought experiments in my head, and essentially train myself to respond with the assumption that I’m being called into action. One day that assumption just might save someone’s life. Or at least the enjoyment of their sandwich…
Now, the story doesn’t quite end there, though that last line would have made for a pretty decent zinger to end on.
For whatever reason, I was recently recounting this story to my wife, when something occurred to me, all these years later. Although I had zero romantic motivations for intervening with the young lady and her sandwich, such champion-like action could have possibly had resulted in eternal, er, “gratefulness” on her part. Following my thoughts wherever they wandered, I continued to muse aloud.
“Who knows? Maybe I would have inadvertently found myself with a lifetime supply of on-demand booty calls…”
At that point I noticed my wife was giving me one of those looks.
[Ruefully under my breath:] “I regret sharing that last detail…”
Content created on: 19/20 August 2019 (Monday/Tuesday)
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