No Regrets!

Living a silly little life and mastering the art of enjoying the small things, I’ve reconstructed my life over many years, and now I find fun in almost everything. I try to say yes to as many opportunities as I can. But once in a while, I do have regrets. If I recall the lessons, there are fewer regrets.

About five years ago, I stayed at Chateau Lake Louise with my significant other. We hiked, explored, ate delicious food, admired giant ice sculptures, and ice skated. It was one of those core-memory trips—the kind that stays stitched into your relationship forever. And yet, I walked away with one regret.

The regret

Snow had been cleared on Lake Louise just in front of the chateau. So much snow, in fact, that when it was pushed aside it created banks of big, fluffy drifts at least five feet high around several rinks. The day was perfect: blue skies, Chateau Lake Louise behind us, towering sculptural mountains in front of us, and ice skaters in touques zipping this way and that. Honestly, I felt like I was in a Hallmark made-for-TV movie. Maybe I’d actually watch this one.

We skated from rink to rink, testing each surface. We picked the biggest one, which also had the tallest mounds of snow along one side. A girl—maybe ten years old—flew past us, pumping hard to gain speed. Where was she going? She’d have to turn pretty quickly because the rink was big, but not that big. I watched the potential calamity unfold. This kid gave it everything she had. My shoulders tensed as I ran through basic first aid training in my head, just in case.

She did not veer off.

POOF.
The man-made mound exhaled snow around her. She hit the bank like a cartoon character—limbs in four separate directions, face planted in fluffy white powder. My eyes popped in shock. My partner laughed. And then the kid popped herself out of the snowbank—again, like a cartoon character—and drifted calmly back to the other side of the rink.

And then… she did it again.
And again.

Each time, after the initial shock, I laughed harder and harder.

I was envious.
My partner teased, “Want to try it?”
I nodded. I did! I wanted to, but I was scared. Man, kids are so brave.

“Yeah, I do. But… probably not.”

But in my heart, I wanted to launch myself into that snowbank like that kid—to toss myself into silliness—to be as courageous as a ten-year-old. But I didn’t.

We went on with our day, skating from rink to rink, grabbing a drink at the ice bar, soaking up the sunshine. I never did plow myself into the snowbank, and I regret it tremendously. That’s not an exaggeration for the sake of a story. I really, truly regret it. When I go back to Chateau Lake Louise, I’ve promised myself I will launch myself into the snowbank just like that kid. Why? Because it looked fun. Because I want to practice living with the enthusiasm of a child. And because now I know what it feels like to carry a small, silly regret—and I don’t want that. To right it, I will do. I will move into action.

Waterslides and reminders

My grandson had a birthday at a hotel with a pool and a waterslide. The only time I’d ever been down a waterslide was in 2007. Once. And that was it.

We got into the pool with the fam and played with the little ones. Eventually, they left for food and quiet time with their moms. That left me, Kev, and our two sons-in-law. My significant other prompted me to go down the slide. I declined politely. Word from the daughters was that the slide was really fast. Being the playful guy he is, he started teasing me—making chicken noises, tapping my head with his nose.

“GAH! Stop!”
I knew he wouldn’t stop unless I gave in.

He laughed. I laughed. And then I remembered Lake Louise and the regret of not being silly and having fun. I didn’t want that feeling again. The guys looked like they were having a blast ripping down that tube.

I surrendered.

Climbing the steps and sitting down, I felt fear bubble up. The tube was dark. I inhaled and exhaled quickly, trying to calm myself. (Quick breaths do not help, by the way.) And then I let go—and by the time I flew out the other end, I was laughing and screaming. The transition was seconds. It was fast.

Kev joined me the second time and insisted I sit right behind him so we could go down together. I politely declined—fuck no thank you. My version of polite. He insisted—again. So I sat behind him and screamed all the way down, and out we shot.

In basic terms:
It. Was. So. Much. Fun.

Time in the pool ended with four adults acting like kids. And isn’t that the point? I may hesitate in the future, but I will not decline fun child-like moments. I’ve learned.

Je ne regrette rien.

As always, thank you for reading Lovelies.