The operative word here is had. I’ve had my regrets. Seriously, I used to be one of those guys who would beat myself up for everything I did that wasn’t done perfectly. I may not come across to people like a perfectionist—I may even across as though I simply do not give a shit—but there was a time when I REALLY cared. That time was, more or less, 95 percent of my life.
Now, though, I like to think that I’m a man of few regrets. Sure, there are things I wish I hadn’t done, but I can’t undo them. But all the things I’ve done, good and bad, have influenced the man I’ve become, and I kind of like that guy today. Well, I guess I should say that I’m a man of few regrets now because for many years, I regretted just about everything. It took a long time to let go of all those things and to accept them as lessons learned on the road to becoming the Ted I am today.
Really, though, when I give it some thought, there’s probably only one thing that I truly regret. Well, one thing that I can think of. One thing I think of all the time.
But first, let me tell you about old Ted, full of regret. RegretTed. I guess somewhere along the way—very possibly birth—my self-esteem took a nose dive. Bottomed-out. Nothing there. I wished at times that everything about me was different. Well, I didn’t want a vagina er nuthin’ like that, and I always wanted to be, you know, Ted. I just wanted to be a smarter, taller, cooler, funnier, sexier, wittier, more punctual, sideburn-growing, more responsible, better looking, not balding, zitless, full-beard-growing, more muscular, more toned, darker-haired, lighter-haired, emotionally-present-and-aware, color-visioned, better-word-knowing, more stylish, ballsier, more self-confident. . . You see where I’m going with this?
Although, there is one thing that I’ve for the most part been confident about in my life: my behind, my glory, if you will. I’ve got an ass that just won’t quit. Sometimes, I’m all like, “Cut it out already!” But it doesn’t because, as I’ve said, that thing simply will not fucking quit. Oh well, my cross to bear.
But anyway, with various therapists over the years, I grew to call this alternate, daydream persona, “SuperTed.” And as I’ve grown more confident in regular ol’ sweet-assed Ted, the daydreams of SuperTedness have dwindled away. I’ve come to accept that all those things I did and said that I thought were dumb or foolish or whatever, all those things made me the Ted I am today. Today’s Ted is the man.
Sure, there are times when I question myself in my thoughts. “Ted, why did you do that? That was so dumb!” Or, “Ted, why did you say that? You’re a moron!” Or, “Ted, why did you leave the scene of that accident? You should have checked for survivors.” At times like these, I remind myself that I can’t change what I’ve done. I can only do things differently in the future. Some days, I have to remind myself of this quite a bit.
But what about this one regret? Well, this one thing probably would not have made Earl’s list of things to do to mend his Karma on the sitcom, My Name is Earl. I didn’t hurt anyone or ruin anyone’s life, but in my book, I simply did the wrong thing.
Oh great, now you want the details. Whatever.
So, a friend of mine when I was stationed in Germany, Dave, had a brief fling with a woman who was, at least in the eyes of us early twenty-somethings, an old lady. We nicknamed her Oma, German for grandmother. Now, I’m not going to sit here and tell you that two people with a strong-enough bond of love can’t overcome any difference or obstacle. Love conquers all. Dave, however, did not love Oma.
We were young men, and Dave was dating a single German woman who, not uncommon to women in the area, would come to the club on post to drink, to dance, and perhaps, to meet that special someone. Oma was, or at least appeared, about forty-or-so years older than most of the others. Not a German girl, as many of us were so interested in, but you know, Oma, old enough to be our grandmother.
We gave Dave a serious ration of shit.
He, however, tried to mitigate his situation in our eyes with the simple explanation that she had “big boobs.” Not being a card-carrying boob-man, I would not relent. Indeed, his only ally in this was another guy in our battalion who had himself previously fallen under the spell of Oma’s womanly wiles. Their united front couldn’t even take some of the pressure of Dave. We merely dealt them both their fair measure of razzing, Oma’s big boobs notwithstanding. It was great fun, well, maybe not for Dave. On the other hand, he could, presumably, still have fun with Oma and her big boobs.
What, you wonder, is my regret? Do I toss and turn through the night, ceaselessly berating myself for giving my good friend Dave such a hard time? No. I was a young guy, and that’s what young guys do to their friends. We give each other shit. You see, there was a moment when I could have, indeed, should have done something different.
Late in the Dave and Oma affair, he was trying to dodge her. I know, spineless, but that would be Dave’s regret, not mine. Anyway, a few of us were having some beers in Dave’s room, as we often did, when there was a knock. Dave, a little flustered and for some reason willing to forgo some big boob time with Oma, said to me, “If that’s Oma, tell her I went to San Remo’s.” Which is—or was—a lovely little Italian restaurant in Crailsheim, the town where we were stationed. Then, he shut himself in his bathroom. And yes, he did refer to her as “Oma.” I’m not 100% sure he called her that during big boob time, though.
I answered the door.
“Is The Dave here,” Oma asked in her thick German accent. Yes, she referred to him as “The Dave.” I could not make that up. Well, it’s well within my creative powers, but I didn’t.
Anyway, this is it. This is the moment I think about. This is the moment that haunts me. This is the shoulda-coulda-woulda moment of my life.
“No, Dave’s at San Remo’s.”
“San Remo’s in Crailsheim?”
“Yes, San Remo’s in Crailsheim.” I knew of no others. I hope that’s the one Dave meant.
She asked if I would tell him that she stopped by, and I agreed. She left, and I bid her a pleasant evening. Dave came out of the bathroom, and I told him that Oma (and her big boobs) had stopped by.
Wow, can you believe that shit? What kind of person was I?
Now, I’m not going to make an argument on the side of being honest with Oma, nor will I try to justify supporting my friend’s deception. Nothing comes from that. There’s right and wrong in both, so right and wrong doesn’t really come into play with second-guessing my decision.
But this, this is what I should have done. . .
“Is The Dave here,” Oma asked in my alternate reality.
“The Dave? He’s takin’ a shit,” I should have said as I pounded on his bathroom door and yelled, “DAVE, pinch it off. You’ve got company!”
We would have all had a good laugh about that, let me tell you, with the possible exception of Oma, and maybe Dave. But oh, the rest of us would have been in tears. I might have even urinated from the sheer hilarity.
So, why would betraying and humiliating my friend in front of his dear, big-boobed Oma be so much better than lying for him? Easy. It would have been funnier. If there’s a grey area muddying up the right and wrong of a situation, it’s hard to go wrong with funny. It would have been a great tale to tell everyone in the unit, and we would have extended the mileage on Dave’s allotment of shit.
We were young guys. Giving each other shit is what we did, and I let the big one get away.
