People talk all the time about wanting to go back and relive certain parts of their lives.
Not me. I'm good where I am, thanks.
I've had very few real challenges in my 51 years on this planet. I'm blessed beyond measure and certainly beyond anything I deserve.
You would think, then, that I would have a whole menu of wonderful memories I want to experience again. And I guess I do. The first time I kissed Terry was pretty cool. Watching my kids be born was mind-blowing. Even the first song I managed to play on a saxophone ("Hot Cross Buns," for the record) was a thrill.
But I don't look backward much, other than all of those World War 1 podcasts I listen to. I'm much more about the now and the what's-to-come.
With one exception: Mr. Mazer's algebra class at Wickliffe Middle School. It's the only class I ever failed in my life. To this day, I can't explain what happened. I had something like six A's, one B, and an F on my report card. Who does that?
The fault, by the way, was entirely my own. I was too immature to ask for help when I needed it, and too irresponsible to do anything once I had fallen hopelessly behind.
The next year I re-took algebra as a freshman with a different teacher and got A's across the board. Mr. Mazer had done everything right, I had done everything wrong. I wish I could go back and retake the class as an eighth-grader and pass it like I should have.
But that's it. Everything else can stay as it is...or was.
