Welcome to the World of Remorse, the world of “I could have said….” “I could have done….” “I could have been....”
What is it about aging and regret that seem to go hand in hand?
After all these decades, I’m getting pretty good at selective memory, making certain I only remember the recollections that make me look good.
I’ve become a contortionist, twisting my inner viewfinder to get the best angle for seeing any and every single action I do as prizeworthy. I’m the one standing in line for my gold star rewarding my noble behavior in past relationships. I deserve a victory parade, or at least a medal, for (almost) holding my tongue and for my overly inflated underwhelming generosity of spirit. I might have to dig deep to find these character traits. Sherlock Holmes could learn a thing or two from my machinations.
Yet sometimes, no matter how deliberately I make the effort to keep them at bay, Truth and Reality manage to creep in. Somewhat like an uninvited guest, Regret, too, pulls up a chair at my table — sans place card.
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