Visiting home always seems to be a sad reminder of the life I could have settled for—not because I regret not staying, but because what I could have had becomes so real to me.
For instance, I drive into Knoxville and I pass a familiar apartment complex, and like a flash there he is—the boy I would have had. And he stands in the foggy remnants of the place I would have lived, the routine I would have fallen into, the job I would have convinced myself was superior, and the life I could already be deeply invested in.
Did I want this boy? Did I want this place? Did I want this life? No; they were the best this town had to offer me, which is why I left. And I’m still young enough that I can say without delusion that I have no regrets. Still, striving for something more is in fact the harder row to hoe (to use a Southernism), and while there isn’t regret, there is a tinge sometimes when I am reminded that because I am holding out for better, there are things I do not have. And this reality is never more present than in old stomping grounds, where we are literally confronted with the opportunities we passed by.
Maybe this is because my stepfather has told me yet again that I am wasting my life and making myself an emotional burden on my mother and him by not getting a real job. Maybe it’s because when you push yourself, you inevitably have to stop and rest and reflect. Or maybe it’s just human to always wonder about the lives we didn’t choose while we’re wading through the one we did.
Either way, life is like acting, you have to make the choice and commit. So despite lingering reflections of downstream in the water’s surface, I slosh forward against the current toward my future. And roll up your pant legs, honey, manpris are in style right now!
