I Wish I Had Enjoyed It More
By: Stephanie Gruner Buckley
Tags: Life Lessons, Midlife, Stress, Happiness, Mountaineering

Photo by Luke Helgeson on Unsplash

It’s a colleague’s last day at work. Our boss treats us to a farewell meal. The boss points to our colleague and asks: “It’s your last day. What’s your biggest regret?”

In this moment, my colleague could have flattered himself: “I wish I’d worked harder.”

Or he could have flattered the boss: “I regret not having learned more from you.”

Instead he says: “I wish I had enjoyed it more.”

I think about this all the time.

We worked for an American newspaper in London. We interviewed fascinating people. We got paid to write. How much more fun could it get?

But most of the time I was stressed out of my brain (probably like everyone else) from the worry of missing deadlines or making very public mistakes in print.

I wish I had enjoyed it more.

Post 50, you think about these things. You think there’s still time to change. Can’t I sometimes live in the moment? Enjoy something while it’s happening and not only when looking back? Why am I always so afraid?

Years ago, my husband, then boyfriend, took me rock climbing in the White Mountains in New Hampshire.

It was a beautiful day, but wet underfoot.

We spend what seem like hours just getting to the base of the climb. The path is narrow. A mountain on one side; a drop to my oblivion on the other. We might as well be out for a weekend walk on a window ledge, one covered with mud and sticks and leaves.

We finally reach the start of the climb. My boyfriend ropes me to him. He scrambles up sheer rock face with tiny indents the size of peas, which he sees as stairs. He makes it look easy.

He stops at a small ledge and ties himself in. Now it’s my turn. The rock climb is similar to the path — wet and slick with leaves — only it’s vertical. My feet keep slipping on the rock. I’m scared and not having much fun. Still, I manage to reach him.

I think we’ll sit for a while and talk and admire the view. Nope. He’s off again, scampering up the next part of the climb. I flail my way up that one too.

Halfway up the third and final pitch, I’ve had it. It’s wet and cold. I’m exhausted. My feet keep slipping. I’m suddenly paralyzed by fear and clinging to the mountain. I curse my boyfriend’s name for bringing me here. I burst into tears.

I start thinking about my ex-boyfriend. He liked drinking scotch by a fire and thought adventure meant going out for Chinese food. I’m thinking, maybe I still have his number.

My boyfriend reaches the top of the climb. I can no longer see him. He’s over a big ledge. All I see is the rope he’s tied to, taut over the edge and hanging straight as an arrow to where it’s tied to my harness.

There’s a metaphor in there somewhere.

He yells down: “You’re almost here. You can do it.”

“There must be another way off the mountain,” I yell back.”

“Only one way,” he says.

I look around. It’s a stunning autumn day. Clear blue skies. A crisp breeze. Tree tops the color of Fruit Loops.

And yet I’m miserable.

“Just a little bit further,” he shouts.

I wipe dry my eyes. I just have to get off this mountain in one piece. Surely there’s somewhere to put my foot. I stick my toe into a hairline crack. Miraculously, it holds. I find another tiny crevice. Little by little I snail my way up the mountain. I try not to cry.

“You’re so close,” he yells over the ledge. “Keep going.”

One more step and pull and step and pull. I am getting there. I can even appreciate how one day, after more practice, I too will see these pea-sized indents as stairs. That’s when my foot slips and I swing backwards into thin air. The terror returns. So do the tears.

Fortunately, I don’t swing far. The rope is tight and locked. My boyfriend is a careful climber. I sit back in my harness, my feet propped against the rock. I look down the sheer face of the mountain. I should stop looking down.

“Two more moves and you’re here,” I hear him call.

He has the rope so tight now. He’s practically hauling me up the mountain like a sack of potatoes. But he can’t get me over the ledge. I have to do that myself. I take a deep breath. I wipe away tears and find two more places to put my feet.

One more step. Then another. I’ve nearly done it. All I have to do is get my feet a tiny bit higher so that I can pull myself over the ledge. I can do this.

I set my feet just under the ledge. I spider my right hand over the top, trying to find a grip. I grab a massive crag, big enough for both hands. I get hold and hoist myself up and over the edge of the cliff to where my boyfriend sits.

That’s when I see them. Dozens of tourists standing behind a rope at a lookout point at the top of the mountain. We’re just a dozen or so feet below. Everyone is grinning including my boyfriend. Some of the tourists snap photos of me scrambling over the ledge; others clap and cheer.

I’m mortified but also pumped with adrenaline and relief. I smile like this is something I do every weekend.

A woman yells down that if I give her my email, she’ll send me a photo of my triumphant moment.

It’s only then I finally relax and feel happy.

I just I wished I had enjoyed it more.