The fact that I work in the arts should indicate that either I have no regrets or that they flow from me like media gaffes from a Toronto mayor.
The former, I’d say, is closer to the truth.
I’d developed a philosophy in my heady youth, which I articulated to a friend one night, drunk on grappa and my twenties. “Enjoy it or learn from it, but don’t regret it.”
This is a fantastic and even slightly practical approach to the vicissitudes of life as a young, straight, white male, but loses some of its oomph after the onset of fatherhood.
Regrets, for a papa, seem as frequent and intense as bad coffee, and mean about as much.
At some point during the last three years, for example, I’ve regretted the following: evolution, the laws of physics as they relate to inertia, the arbitrariness of the imperial system of measurement, and dogs.
I’ve also regretted the fact that I didn’t get more done back when I had time even when I thought I didn’t. If you don’t have kids, you have time. You have buttloads of time
This morning the Little Man fund one of my Irish whistles. And so far today I’ve regretted any musical inclinations I’ve ever had, my Irish ancestry, my parents’ support of my artistic endeavors, the careers of Shane MacGowan and the Pogues, and air.
I regret air.
Why didn’t I hide that damn whistle?