I’ve tried to live my life without regrets, but I do have a couple.  One of them is something I did when I was in my teens.  Let me tell you the story.

When I about 15, a girl I went to church with had a crush on me.  I didn’t know it at first, and blithely went on about the normal girl chasing I did back then.  I was more interested in her cousin*, but her cousin didn’t care much for me (at first), so I kept chasing the cousin, and this girl—let’s call her “F”—kept chasing me.

“F” was a pretty backward girl.  Although she was quite attractive in her own way, she was extremely shy.  She grew up in a very conservative religious family that did not believe in wearing makeup or girlish clothing.  This all meant that she lagged behind her peers in terms of attracting guys.  She carried a torch for me for several years, but I was completely unaware of it.

Eventually, the cousin and I hooked up and were boyfriend/girlfriend for awhile.  Then we broke up and remained friends.  It was at this point that I learned “F” had feelings for me.  Too backward to say anything, she’d stood quietly in the shadows while I chased her cousin and various other females, catching one of them from time to time.

Near Valentine’s Day one year, the cousin asked me to take “F” to our church’s “Sweetheart Banquet,” and I did.  “F” wore make-up—against her parents’ teachings—probably for the first time in her life.  She bought a brand new dress for the occasion, and looked simply wonderful.  I was, however, too interested in other girls and chasing the ones that lived a little more on the wild side to really do anything about this.  “F” and I remained friends, but there was never any real romance—mostly because I would not explore that with her.

“F” and I were involved in a youth program that you can learn about here and were members of a team that had some real success.  We traveled the country together and became great friends, but I still didn’t know what to do with the fact that she had feelings for me.  I never really stopped to ask myself whether I might have feelings for her.  Instead, I chased still more girls, and eventually caught one that I wish I’d never met.  We’ll call her “A.”

“A” was the quintessential spoiled rich girl.  The youngest of two kids and the only girl, she was doted on by her wealthy parents.  She was also physically beautiful.  Intellectually, she was a zero, and, more importantly, she was very rotten, selfish person.  She was as shallow and fickle as girls come, and used people for her own ends without thinking twice about it.

Anyway, I met “A” at summer camp through her older brother who was a friend of mine.  “F” was at that camp, too, but I basically ignored her.  I was captivated by “A’s” physical beauty and never stopped to think about whether she was actually beautiful inside.  You know the old saying your mother used to quote that “beauty is only skin-deep?”  Well, I think they invented that one just for her.

So, I began a relationship with “A” that subjected me to varying degrees of misery for many years thereafter.  “A” cheated on me repeatedly, then went ballistic when I would find myself another girl.  “A’s” parents constantly interfered with us, and “A” seemed to like it.  “A” wreaked havoc with my emotions; meanwhile, “F” continued to carry a torch for me and probably hoped that I’d eventually come to my senses.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I never really did—come to my senses, that is.  I mean, yes, I eventually realized what a huge mistake I’d made in getting mixed up with “A,” but, by then, it was too late.  I was damaged goods, and “F” had moved on with her life.

I saw “F” a few years after everything was finally over with “A,” and I could see the hurt I’d caused in her eyes.  She and I had taken separate paths, and there was no going back—no matter how much both of us might have wanted to.  Sometimes life doesn’t give you do-overs.  Sometimes, there are no second chances.  You get one opportunity to do what’s right, and, after that, maybe you just live with your choices.  I always felt bad about that.  I always felt terrible about the pain I’d caused “F.”  I chased this rotten, selfish pathetic excuse for a woman; meanwhile one of the best girls I ever met was dying inside.  I don’t go around causing people hurt intentionally, but I was young and foolish, and that is exactly what happened.

Eventually, “F” moved on and became a missionary—to Taiwan, as I recall.  I don’t know whether she ever married.  We both moved on with our lives, but I still look back with regret on the way that I treated her.  Perhaps we would never have had a romance between us, but the way I handled myself back then left much to be desired.

So, “F,” if you ever read this, I hope you’ll forgive me.  I know we’ve now taken our own paths and moved on, but I want you to know I never meant to hurt you.  You were like a sister to me.  I wish I’d been more considerate of you and your feelings back then.  I wish I’d explored you and gotten to know what a wonderful person you are for myself.  You didn’t deserve what I did, and I just want you to know that “A” never held a candle to you.  If I had it to do all over again, I’d never have even met “A.”  I have realized what a mistake it was for many years now and can only hope you’ll forgive my callous disregard for your feelings.  As hard as it might be to believe, I never meant to break your heart.  I hope you find happiness with another, and I hope that person loves you for the truly wonderful and exquisite—and beautiful—person that you are.

*Some of the names and relations have been changed to protect people's privacy.

A little recap of my adventures Friday night:

It’s late August, and my son and I are zipping around Dallas with the T-tops out and the windows down. Every time we drive the sports car, he pesters me to take the tops out and turn the radio up, and tonight I oblige him. We’ve just left the Landmark Theatre where we caught the Dallas opening of The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters, one of the best movies I’ve seen in years. I got turned on to this one thanks to Brian Flemming’s blog, and it was everything I’d hoped. It’s well worth your time if you like a good story, a bit of intrigue, and some honest filmmaking.

Anyway, it’s a summer night and my son and I are zipping around in a red sports car through downtown Dallas. I’d planned to take him out for “gas station tacos” at a Fina station that’s a local gathering place for young people and happens to have a walk-up window for some delicious soft tacos. Two Hispanic ladies work the window and make the best soft tacos you’ve ever tasted, doling them out by the bagful. The place is open all night, and attracts a young, festive demographic I know he’ll be into, but I can’t find it. We zip all over downtown Dallas, but I haven’t been there in some time, and I simply can’t find the place. My son doesn’t seem to care—he seems to dig the open air, the radio, and the tour of the mostly-deserted downtown environs.

I then suggest we run over to Deep Elum or Lower Greenville and get some eats, and he eagerly agrees. One thing you can always count on a teenage boy being into is food. It comes somewhere between girls and video games on his list of life’s best things. I know a cool restaurant in Deep Elum named Angry Dog that serves Dallas’ best hotdog. We zip over on Commerce Street and soon find “The Dog.” We park right in front of the place, step out the roof and over the doors of my car like we’re Magnum, P. I., and I happen to notice there are women everywhere—outside The Dog, inside, in cars in front, etc.—and they’re checking out my son. He’s checking them out, too. I consider covering his eyes, and we walk inside.

We then have the best hotdog either of us has had in many moons if not ever, down several sodas, then head back out into the night. The women are still there, and my son is still taking note.

We speed away and jump on the highway to head home—Van Halen’s Jump on the stereo and the wind wreaking havoc inside the car. It’s never like it is in the movies—the wind, that is. They always show it gently blowing through convertibles or open-air cars in the movies, sometimes it’s even a little brisk, but it’s really just a special effects guy with a fan off-camera. In reality, racing down the highway with the tops out and the windows down is like driving around in a wind tunnel. My son’s hair, which is close-cropped and filled with twelve kinds of gel and mousse, is unaffected. Mine, which is too long and lacks my son’s lacquer finish, is beginning to resemble that of the Reverend Jim from Taxi. The wind batters us as we drive, but we don’t care. It’s late August, summer’s almost over, and we’re just living in the moment. Neither of us says a word as we zoom northward home.

School started the previous Monday, and my son is now a sophomore. I glance over at him as he stares out into the night, rockin’ to a song I rocked to when I was about his age. Seems like just yesterday he was singing along with Barney. He doesn’t have a care in the world, but I’m a little sad when I realize that his time at home, like summer itself, is drawing to a close. Nights like these—they are especially precious to me lately. I wonder what he will remember of them when he’s older.