My father used to say :
worrying is like paying interest on a loan you’ve not yet taken. He also told
me : it’s better to be happy than right. He was a bon vivant, a
philosopher, a philanthropist, a poet. Once, while shaving, the Muse whispered
in his ear…he grabbed a pen and wrote a poem, right there on the bathroom wall.
Many a happy hour were spent
watching the sunset and musing on the vicissitudes of life. Also drink and
dialing loved ones around the world regardless of the time difference, because
he couldn’t wait to tell them that he was thinking of them, that he loved them,
to share his reflections or a bawdy joke.
When he left us at the ripe
old age of 85 it was a huge loss. But I found comfort knowing that he lived a full
life, that he did everything he wanted to do. A life without (too much) regret.
I was speaking recently with
a long-time friend who carries the heavy weight of regret with him every day.
He was married for twenty years, the last ten of which were filled with strife.
« If I’d gotten out
sooner…. » he lamented, « I’d still be a young man.»
« You had hope that
things could be salvaged. »
« All that time wasted… »
he looked into the distance.
« It was a learning
experience. You grew as a person.»
He gave a deep sigh and shook
his head, inconsolable.
« It’s in the past. You have
to move on.»
Watching this friend
struggling to find joy, being eaten away by regret was a wake-up call for me.
Like everyone, I have regrets,
but I realize now that holding on to them is a crushing burden that I don’t
need to bear. I want to live in the present not replaying the sadness or disappointment of a past action
or worse, inaction.
When I wrote the word « regret »
the following episodes were the first to come to mind. I regret not buying a
pair of purple patent-leather maryjanes that I saw in the 15th arrondissement
in Paris. They were the perfect shoe, but I was unemployed at the time and
couldn’t rationalize spending the money. I regret not getting on stage to dance
when they asked for volunteers at the Salon de Jeux Video at Porte de
Versailles. I really wanted to dance but I was self-conscious about my outfit. Lame.
I regret that I did not reach
out to a friend who was ill before I lost her. I didn’t know what to say, and
was convinced that I needed to write a meaningful, perfect letter, I wasted
time and…it was too late.
I regret getting involved
with someone for the wrong reasons. It is one of the rare times that I
blatantly disregarded my instinct. I knew that were wildly unsuited from the
get-go and yet, I proceeded. After several weeks of hanging out and getting to
know one another through deep, soul-searching conversations, I felt him pulling
away. (I always give credit where it’s due : the guy was a good
conversationalist and a good listener.)
We made plans to meet up the
next day, a Friday…his tone was cool. When he arrived at my apartment we
greeted awkwardly and sat down to talk. I can’t recall the exact language he used,
something to the effect : after all of our conversations he realized that,
in fact, we were not a good match. I nodded in agreement.
This part I remember
verbatim. « I think you’re great, really interesting, blahblahblah, but… I
want to be with a woman who is a dirty whore and a filthy pig. And…that’s not
you. » He had a slight note of regret in his voice.
*A note : I use
profanity liberally so « offensive language » rarely offends me. I
also have many confidants who have shared with me intimate, sometimes graphic,
details of their lives which I do not judge. There is little in the realm of
human relations that I find shocking.
This person and I had shared
stories of previous relationships, including some intimate details, so that’s
how he was able to ascertain that I was not « his type. » A dirty
whore and a filthy pig.
I was glad, flattered even (!),
that he realized that wasn’t me. He knew I had friends of all flavors and
sexual orientations and preferences and kinks, so I suppose that’s why he felt
he could be brutally honest (and extremely specific) about his true desires.
Once he left my apartment I
called my three closest friends to meet me at the neighborhood pub. It’s not
everyday one gets dumped in such a fashion.
An hour (and several drinks)
later, I replayed the scene. When I got to the punch line, my friends stood
there slackjawed, staring at me in disbelief.
Finally one guy pal
said : »I didn’t think people really talked like that. » Another : « wow, you just dodged a
bullet. » My sweetest, kindest girlfriend : « A dirty
whore? » she shook her head. « And a filthy pig ! » chimed
the others.
Throughout the evening and
many more drinks, we repeated the story to friends and strangers. Everyone was
taken aback. By the fifth retelling we were laughing hysterically at the dirty
whore line. Perhaps trying to convince ourselves that it wasn’t so shocking, that
it was normal, just another preference like being attracted to blondes or men
who wear glasses.
The next morning in the sober
light of day, it hit me again that I had been dumped. Yes, by an asshole, but still
dumped. I called my dad for some sympathy. « Dad, I was dating this guy
and he broke up with me. He told me he wants a woman who is a dirty whore and a
filthy pig. » Just repeating those
words to my father filled me with shame. And so it finally dawned on me that
those words ARE f*cking shameful.
My father was silent for a
minute and then said : « Any man who would speak about a woman that
way is, himself, a pig. »
Friends, just such a man is
running for President of our magnificent country.
We visited my mother in
California this summer. One night we were out to dinner, a table of four was seated
next to us : three women in their 40’s-50’s and a man in his 30’s. It was
the night after the DNC.
I tuned into their
conversation just as one of the women said : « What did you think of
her speech ?» My mother and I had watched the speech together, holding my
little girl (and glasses of champagne), with tears in our eyes. I returned to
my dinner as the two other women discussed the merits and weak points of the
speech. Then the man, the young, white man said : » Yeah, I dont know
if I’m going to vote. » I had to
grip the table to stop myself from turning to my fellow American and
shouting : « Are you f*cking KIDDING, Dude ? »
I can’t remember the rest of
the meal, only that I skipped dessert, because I was so preoccupied by this
stranger’s innocuous (!) comment. I had to talk myself down several times from
laying into this guy with a string of insults : « how f*cking dare
you ? Privileged white male ! Do you know how much is at
stake in this election ?! Not vote ?! It’s your goddamn civic
duty. » My heart was racing, my blood was boiling.
When we finally finished
dinner, my mother walked to the door with my son, my husband was behind them,
and I followed, carrying my sleeping daughter. I got five feet away from the
table and turned back. « I’m sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing your
conversation, » I said politely. The table of diners looked up, surprised.
« Every vote REALLY counts….and Hillary is the only choice. » The
women were quick to respond, « Oh, we agree with you ! » but I was looking at the guy. He nodded at me
uncomfortably. I bid them a good evening and joined my family outside where my
husband chastised me. He was mortified by what I’d done. « I can’t believe
you. That was so rude. No wonder nobody likes Liberals. » « Right,
sure, Babe. » I stopped myself from saying, « Guess what? You don’t
vote in this country so STFU. »
I walked around the car to
put my daughter in her car seat. My mother was next to me. « I had to say
something to those people about voting. » She nodded. « J thinks I
was out of line, but my conscience would not let me be silent. I would
have regretted not speaking up.» Under the glow of the street lamp, my mother,
a paragon of politesse, beamed with pride.
Friends, I pray that your
lives are free from deep regret. I
believe that the regret of a lost opportunity, of things not done, is more damaging
than the possible dissatisfaction or discontent of a « wrong »
choice. Yes, even my episode with « that person » was a learning
experience. If you do carry regrets, I hope
you can learn from them (if there is a lesson) and move on.
I have learned that perfect
doesn’t exist, and that there is no better time than RIGHT NOW to reach out to
someone you care about. (Thanks for that one, Dad.)
And, if your conscience tells you to speak up,
listen to it. And finally, if the opportunity presents itself, you should
always get up and dance.
Don’t forget to vote! Go
shout it from the mountaintop : Nobody gets to sit this one out.
p.s. if anyone sees those
maryjanes, I wear a size 8 ;)
