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.
For example, in the last few months I’ve avoided cleaning my house. Yep, I know that’s not a good idea but I hate cleaning house. I’d rather go to the dentist than clean house and even though my dentist is a pretty nice fellow, he’s not someone I want to see more than twice a year, Which, come to think of it, is about how often I clean my house.
I didn’t used to be so adverse to house cleaning. When my daughter was younger and living at home, I cleaned like a fiend on a regular basis. By regular, I mean more than once a week. But these days it’s just me and the cat and, trust me, she doesn’t care. In fact, she hates the vacuum almost as much as I do and hides whenever she hears it coming.
So, for the record, my not cleaning is doing a good deed for Emily (the cat).
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Psst, anybody know where I can find a cheap maid service?