Guilt trip

Catholics are burdened with guilt. I’m burdened with regrets. And guilt. All the stuff I wish I’d done differently. I wish I’d been nicer to my great-grandmother. I wish I’d seen Alex before he died. And James. I wish I hadn’t kissed the boy with no front teeth. I wish I had ravaged the boy outside the bar that night. I wish I’d sought help when I  (probably) had PND. And I wish I’d made more of my time in New York … Oh, I have endless other regrets, but I’m trying to tighten up my blog posts. I’ve been told I go on a bit … I may have mentioned I lived in New York to you once or twice, maybe 500 times. I want to go back, with the same irrational, burning desire I feel to sell my house. Both very impractical, but one would facilitate the other rather nicely, now I come to think of it. When I lived in New York, I was a teeny bit miserable. I was shoehorned into a tiny apartment while it snowed and snowed and snowed. Husband was off galivanting at university with pretty twentysomethings. I was building LEGO towers with a toddler and a pre-schooler. If we lived in New York now, the Sprogs would be at school. I’d only have to build LEGO towers at night and on weekends. It would be awesome, I just know it. I wouldn’t be miserable AT ALL. I’d love every thrilling New York minute. When I expressed my regrets about New York to Husband the other night, he told me to get over it. He reminded me that we sucked New York dry. We saw so many things, we went so many places. That’s true, but I didn’t appreciate it enough, this amazing gift we were given. A fully-paid scholarship to Columbia University – I mean, come on! Maybe if I got a chance to do it all over again, I’d appreciate it more. But I’m not going to get that chance. I’ll never live in New York again. And I’m so bloody sulky about it … God I hate PMT, it’s a bitch …