Regrets?

I have been alive in eight different decades. Sure, I was born just a few weeks away from the 50’s, and it’s only 2012, but still, it’s true enough. When I meet up with other incoming members of official old-fartdom, the talk generally starts out about various aches and pains. I usually offer up that when I get up off the couch, it takes me about 10 steps before I am fully upright.

Depending on the company, the mood, and the number of bottles of red wine imbibed, the conversation may take a more maudlin turn. The news of classmates passing away has become more common. Stories of old friends have a different feel when they are now given as a type of eulogy instead of just a funny story from long ago.

Sometimes the talk is about regrets. For me, it’s kind of like the song says.. “Regrets, I have a few, but then again, too few to mention.” Except for one. And it’s not a regret about something I did or didn’t do. No, for me, it’s about something that won’t happen again. And I have shared it only very rarely. On one hand, it seems superficial and shallow. On the other hand though, it’s one of the few thoughts that leave me feeling empty, and just plain old, and that my youth and vitality are slowly but surely slipping away. But since we're being all anonymous here..

So, here it is. Never again will I walk into a party or a summer dance or a book store and look across the room and catch the eye of a pretty young girl and know we have connected on some primeval level. I won’t ever ask her if I can buy her a drink or ask her to dance or ask about what book she is buying. I won’t ever feel that first touch on my arm that she lets linger just a moment longer than necessary. I won’t ever, ever see her lower her head shyly, and then brush the hair out of her face, over her ear, and then tilt her had up slightly and smile. I won’t ever feel the excitement and rapid heartbeat and shortness of breath as I kiss her for the first time. I won’t hold her close during a slow dance, and taste the salty sweat as I kiss her neck. And I won’t see the silhouette in the moonlight of a summer dress being lifted over her head. And I won’t … well this isn’t a Penthouse letter, so I’ll stop. Maybe you get the idea?

How about some context? I am very happily married. I would rather get poked in the eye with a sharp stick than to have to be out there again trying to meet someone or date someone. If something happened to my wife, I could live out my days with my books and Netflix and trying to be a good father and grandfather and be happy and content with my life. All things considered, I think my children will think I was a pretty damned good father.

That doesn’t change the fact that sometimes.. late at night or on a cold and gray rainy afternoon.. I let myself drift off to another time and place. Just for a little while.