Ever wonder about what might have been? I don’t very often but in the last few weeks have indulged in a romanticized trip down memory lane.
A friend from college recently mentioned via Facebook that a mutual friend from back then wasn’t doing very well. You see, the mutual friend was tucked way back in a cubbyhole in my brain as “the one that got away.” It’s a really long story and I won’t torture you with the details except to say that I always thought it was my own fault. I’ve carried around regret for years and, from time to time, wondered what might have been—until my friend and I took our conversation offline (yes, people do still have conversations outside of Facebook) and I learned more.
You see, I’ve always believed in fate, that things happen for a reason. Maybe not the things I want, much less the reason I want them, or when for that matter, but there is always a reason. As a result, I’ve pretty much strolled through life going with gut instinct. I learned early on that over-thinking big decisions leads me down the wrong path. Doesn’t matter what the decision is about. Whether it’s to pick up and move across the country or what color car to buy, if I over think it, it does not work out well for me. (I still, to this day, can’t fathom why I bought that gray car. I hated it. I hate gray. Yet, it seemed like such a good idea at the time.)
Hearing more about our friend, and how he’s conducted his life, brought an end to my little excursion down memory lane. You see, it turns out that if the “one that got away” hadn’t, I would have gotten what I wanted at the time, but would have regretted it year after year after year. That regretful reality would have been so much worse that my regretful “what might have been” illusion.
Which leads me to reprieve.
From where I sit now, it looks like that fateful day, regretful though it was at the time, was my reprieve from a lifetime of disillusion.
This happy camper’s big decision today is whether to go with dusting first or running the vacuum. H-m-m-m, my gut says read my new book.
I recently passed the 5th module in my quest for CCP (Certified Compensation Professional) via WorldatWork’s certification program. Past the halfway mark, with the toughest ones out-of-the-way, I can focus on the fun stuff like job analysis, documentation, and evaluation. Yippee!
I am not being sarcastic. I enjoy this stuff. Really.
What I don’t enjoy is cleaning house. Which is obvious to anyone who steps in the door.
Dust is my friend, dust is my friend, dust is my friend …
Last summer—in a moment of insanity—I bought new bedroom furniture. The insane part wasn’t buying the furniture because I’d had the same stuff for about 30 years and new furniture was way overdue.
The craziness was buying mahogany furniture with a black stain. Every, and I mean every, fleck of dust shows on every surface.
This stuff starts showing dust on the end of the dresser I just dusted by the time I get to the other end. And, I always know when my cat, Emily, walked across it because she leaves a trail of paw prints.
I could have bought the same set in white but was afraid it would show dirt too easily given Emily’s penchant for walking all over furniture.
So, in the spirit of “if you can’t beat ’em join ’em” I’ve decided I can live with shades of gray.
I draw the line, though, when it starts looking like it’s been sprinkled with baby powder. Dirty snow is not a good look.
I stopped by the grocery store in a rush a few days ago to pick up a few necessities. You know, eggs, bread, milk, the usual stuff.
This morning, I finished the last of the milk (the milk I already had) and reached in the fridge for the new milk, ripped the top off, and poured it right into the almost-full glass I already had.
Before I go any further with this narrative let me just say that I LOVE milk. A day without milk is like a day without sunshine in my book (sorry orange juice marketers) and breakfast without milk just isn’t right. It would be like crackers without cheese, a movie without popcorn, CSNY without Y. (It’s been years and I’m still not over that one.)
Next, I took a big gulp of my beloved milk and what to my wondering taste buds did appear?
I HATE buttermilk! Except in biscuits, of course. And, ranch dressing.
So, to the twit that stuck a jug of buttermilk in with the sweet acidophilus …
Very bad move.
On the brighter side, breakfast with Dr. Pepper ain’t too shabby.
But, what the heck am I going to do with a gallon of buttermilk?