There’s not much in my life to regret. Every person has her moments of shoulda, woulda, coulda’s, but for the most part, the major decisions of my life have been made with much deliberation. So it surprised me the other day when, in a moment of rare silence, I was caught unawares by one nagging bit of past regret.

Once upon a time, I lived in Wichita, Kansas, where I attended Newman University with the intention of graduating with a degree in elementary education. I wanted to be a second-grade teacher. I went to school four nights a week plus four hours each Saturday morning. This was in addition to my full-time job as a teller for Fidelity Bank. I was twenty years old and the only one living in the dorm who attended evening classes while working forty hours a week. My prescence was of a matronly sort, and my friends, particularly the boys across the hall, turned to me whenever they needed someone to loan them a can opener or iron. Occasionally they would slip me little love notes underneath my door, but that was mostly when they were drunk.  

One of my core classes was focused on students learning and applying basic computer applications. For one particular assignment, we were required to write a mock-up news article like what you might find in a daily newspaper. Mine was a light-hearted take on college kids and stress, and it was written from first-hand experience. I still have that article in a red folder, and I flip through it from time to time. I like to peruse the papers and measure my growth as a writer.

Although I wasn’t aware of it at first, the teacher who taught that computer class also happened to be the managing editor of the university newspaper. After presenting my mock article to the class, the teacher pulled me aside and offered me a position on the paper as a staff writer. In short, he was impressed with my writing skills. I was torn, to say the least, and ultimately I turned down the job.

Unfortunately, I had bills to pay. Aside from living expenses, I had an unreliable car to maintain. I had food to buy. My job at the bank barely left any discretionary income in my pocket, so I knew there was no way I would be able to quit my real job and live off what was being offered. I also knew I wouldn’t be able to juggle a full-time job, full-time class load, and a full-time writing job. I couldn’t do it all.

I wanted that writing position. I really wanted it. But I was rich on common sense, back then, even at twenty years of age.

I haven’t thought about that incident in years. Had I taken that job with the paper, I don’t think the course of my life would have been altered in any sort of dramatic way. I feel certain I would still be sitting on this couch and writing a blog post, perhaps about some other past regret.

It’s just, what are the chances that the managing editor of a newspaper is going to, once again, toss a job into my lap?

As a writer, I can only expect to get what I am willing to give.

And I am ready to give . . .