May 1, 1996
Those of us starting to feel the big four-oh bearing down get wistful every now and then, and get to reminiscing about the days when we were 18 or so and how, given the chance to go back and do things again, we might change a few things.
I got to thinking the other day about that spring of my senior year in high school, decisions I'd made which determined the way things have gone since, the options I'd turned away from and those I'd chosen.
Hindsight being crystal clear, there are a lot of reasons to kick myself.
When Judgement Day rolls around, I realize I'm going to have to stand in judgement for every sin I've ever committed. I have faith that I'll find forgiveness, but I earnestly hope God's not feeling especially sarcastic on that day.
I'm not sure I could bear the shame if they also trot out all my "duh!" decisions to chortle over.
One of the most lamentable choices was the silly decision I made while puking into a trashcan just outside the intramural gym at the University of Houston following a 440-yard "shuttle run." Between gasps and heaves, I determined the Army just wasn't the place for me.
At stake was a nomination to West Point. A couple of other arguments had been, to that point, of more concern.
First was the fact that West Point trains engineers. I'd already determined I'd never be an engineer. Nearly failing trigonometry my junior year scared me away from any type of heavy math study in the future; words were my province.
Secondly, there was the age thing. Four years at the Point, five years in the Army, and I'd be 27. From the point of view of an 18-year-old who'd just discovered Gilley's, 27 was really old — far too old to have any fun.
So I declined the nomination, two days before the notice arrived announcing my appointment. Nine years down the road, at the age of 27, I enlisted in the Marine Corps.
Things like that make you realize He has to have a sense of humor.
There are other decisions I made that spring in 1977 which seemed at the time to be right — and which rate a resounding "duh!" now.
Had I not been so utterly naive, for example, I'd have found a better vocation to pursue. Don't get me wrong: I love this job, the people and creativity and excitement. But there's something to be said for being bored to tears while making $125,000 a year.
Given the omniscience of hindsight, I sometimes think I should've gone ahead and chased a political science degree and become a politician or something. I personally think I'd have made a great Senator. I love to rouse the rabble, kiss babies' mothers and look great sitting in a limousine.
On the other hand, being a journalist means I can propose legislation faster than any politican, and use my craft to sway voters with far more effect than mere oratory. Cash-flow aside, I made the right choice.
Perhaps the worst decision I made that fateful spring, though, had nothing to do with career or cash, but had a far deeper and more enduring impact.
You know how it is with that "first love?" Well, mine came that spring of 1977 — the head-over-heels, dreams-of-picket-fences kind of thing.
I think we were watching some B movie at the old Town & Country drive-in over in Pasadena one night when she informed me that she wasn't quite as head-over-heels about this thing as I seemed to be. In short, she wasn't ready to tie any knots for a while.
I can't say I handled it well. I never spoke to her again, and for most of the last 20 or so years, I've hated even the mention of her name.
When I get to reminiscing nowadays, I recall all the silly things I've done over the years and usually wind up grinning about them. The experiences of a lifetime build character, and I'd like to think I'm quite a character at this point in time. Most of my regrets are laughable, but there's one I really do wish I could go back and repair.
It's nearly 20 years late in coming,
but if you're out there, Cheryl, I'm sorry.