Fabulous Risk

There are so many ways to get to the point of not getting what you want. As I walked up Fifth Avenue today a list of downfall causes floated into my head, keeping me rueful company. I should interject here that the idea of keeping track of material losses is perhaps objectionably frivolous, particularly for someone walking around New York City in this day and age. Some losses are too horrible to contemplate, and regrets for missed chances to acquire dresses or paintings admittedly transport the worrier to an artificially pastel landscape of small-time aggravations. Fears and longings miniaturized can largely displace despair on a regular scale, at least for the lucky ones so far untouched by real grief. That said, regret--even for lost material chances--is real, and displays bemoan-able weaknesses in character, independence and acumen. So there can be pastel anguish percolating below the surface-y surface, a self-imposed seat-belt of inhibition proposing safety over fabulous risk.

Errors of omission committed by women or men on their own may relate to fears of being taken, or of over-estimating the worth of an object of desire. Years later when regret kicks in, it might be consolation to recognize the uses of decades of education, not just in practical matters but also in the realm of taste. This is why collectors trade up, de-accessioning the uninformed purchases of their youth.

As for the turning away from desire, even for those engaged in partner-induced compromises, in the end it is the one who refuses to dig in her heels—worse, to demand unreasonable preference--who is to blame. Regret will follow; all extravagance would have been forgiven.

But of course there is the question of money, inextricably wound to ideas of compromise and self-deprecation, or retirement and desire.