He Never Got To Kick The Football

i regret taking life and myself too seriously at various points in my life. man, what a douche i was.

i regret having dreams where i feel antagonized in uncomfortable circumstances that i thought i have overcome long ago.haunted by what really happened and what possibly could of happened.

I regret not being able to catch my dog when I was ten and he fell from the balcony, ten feet down to concrete.

Having sex with someone I shouldn't have.
I quit something I enjoyed doing because I didn't like the authoritative figure.
Not knowing when to leave the dance floor and say enough is enough.

I have knowingly starved loves that would have lived.

i regret being so self-absorbed as to not listen to people that have something important to say.

As a child, I told my sister that a ring she wore was not made of real precious stones. I did this to hurt her because I was jealous of her costume jewelry.

I regret letting life interfere with art.

I took my opportunities for granted and now I have none.

I had arranged, and promised, to take my 12 year old daughter and her best friend to a hospital ward on Halloween, in costume, to cheer up the patients, and I backed out at the last minute – unforgivable.

I regret having remained a child for far too long.

My regret, one of several, is that I didn't take better care of my body all these years.

I regret not thinking more clearly about the future when choosing my daughter's Father.

Getting married. Twice.

I regret not being more convincing while encouraging my parents to purchase Sega stock in 1987.

I regret that I want you to regret how you have treated me.

I regret nothing because the choices make the person and I like who I am.

Not telling my soulmate that I love her.

Wasting years of my life on someone else's goals.

I regret moments/hour/days of insecurities not spent on laughing/learning/living.

I regret not having gone to bed earlier.

I regret not talking with my grandmother more before she died only because her mental state was too hard for me to bear.

I regret looking at my uncle when he was lying in state.

I regret compromising my life's comfort by not speaking up and making my
voice heard loud and clear; strong and bold, so many times in my life.

I regret every time I didn't put my foot down.

Thank you, everyone. This couldn't have happened without you.

My Udder Often Tastes Sour, Asshole

As those of you who know me know, and those of you who don't can well imagine, I am a bit sensitive about my udder.

Having an udder has always been a challenge to my sense of self-worth and body image. It makes swimming difficult, dating awkward, sex messy in a lactosey way. Naturally, junior high and high school were tremendously hard on me. And let me put this out there right now: Please do not leave me comments such as:

Wow. It's you, the udder girl from Toll Middle School. How are you? I'm glad to see you're doing so well. Hey, btw, no hard feelings about that thing in gym class, right? I mean, we went overboard with the volleyball net and leaving you there overnight, but we that milking machine was totally funny. I mean, it isn't funny now, but it was back then. Anyway, good to see you came out ok.

I do not need comments like this.

So, a friend of mine introduced me to this guy named Chris, though everyone calls him Becky. His last name is Beck or something. In any case, I go to meet Becky unsure of whether or not my friend has told him about the udder.

I should put this out there: I assume when people describe me to others, they refer to me as "the one with the udder." Wouldn't you? I would, if it were someone else. Hell, I do it sometimes to myself.

So, in order to meet a new friend, I spent quite some time selected my outfit. Looking cute is right out; I have much larger, milk-filled problem. I found a cute baggy knit sweater and stirrup. I looked like Lisa Bonet from The Cosby Show era. Plus, my udder was completely hidden. I met Becky at some cheap Mexican restaurant with nice, high tables. Becky and I hit it off, laughing a great deal about our mutual friend's latest haircut. What a nightmare.

It occurred to me that things were going quite well with Becky. Meeting for lunch extended into a jaunt for coffee. It was a generally pleasant afternoon. Then, I brought it up. I shouldn't really say that I brought it up. I more hinted at it.

Were you apprehensive meeting me today? I know how [mutual friend named deleted] can be when she describes me, I ventured.

What do you mean, he asked. He sipped his mocha frappuccino and ate the whipped cream off the straw.

You know, I said. The udder thing.

Your mother thing? I had his undivided attention. I regretted it immediately.

And so I began my standard speech introducing my udder. The rare nature of the birth defect. The generally uncomfortable way it rode in clothing. Puberty and uncontrollable lactating. Those of you who know me have already gotten this speech; those of you who don't will just have to imagine.
As per usual, Becky was blank-faced and stammering for a moment or two. He blushed a bit, oscillating between incredulous looks and embarrassment for those looks. Ultimately, he began to nod and seemed to take it all in.

An udder, huh? Well, at least now I can say I have a friend with an udder, right? He tried to take it in good spirits.

We continued to talk for awhile, mostly about books. I was raving about Kafka on the Shore and how it was like reading a dream. He was raving about On Beauty and how it made him wish his house had more mirrors. We continued on this way for over an hour, under a thin veneer of comfort.

Abruptly, Becky interrupted our conversation.

Does your udder still produce milk, he asked.

Yes, indeed, I told him. I have to use something like a breast pump and drain out every night. It usually isn't all that much, but it gets really bad if I let it go more than a day. Bad how? Well, it just becomes uncomfortable, the pressure. It's what I imagine blueballs to feel like, but in my udder. No, I don't drink my own milk. First of all, it would be like drinking my own breastmilk. Second of all, the milk I produce tends to be sour.

This seemed to throw Becky for a loop. What did I mean I produced sour milk?

I told him that the milk is made by my body, and my body is pretty consistently under stress. Stressful lives lead to stressed bodies which leads to sour milk.

This is where the conversation also turned sour. Becky suggested that if I took better care of my health, I would probably produce better milk. People who don't take care of their health also tend to be people who just don't think about the reprocussions of their choices on their bodies and lives. That's how people become obese, he said.

This, admittedly, pissed me off. It pissed me off because who the hell was this guy to tell me I was in poor health? He would have never suggested I was in poor health if he didn't know I had an udder. My health is just fine, thank you.

I was also pissed off because he's right. I should take better care of my health. But that has nothing to do with my udder and I resent the implication.

Becky could see that I was irritated and tried to correct things. He was only making a suggestion. He was just trying to help make my udder less of a burden by improving the quality of the milk I produce. I informed him that there is no need to improve the quality of my udder or my milk. The milk I produce is the milk I produce. It is simply the way my body works.

At this point in things, my tone because a bit nasty. Becky could sense it and was not amused. He made a comment, only slightly under his breath, that I could probably achieve sweeter milk if I tried a sweeter disposition more often.

So I said- well, you know what I said.