By Lisa Scottoline
Today, we discuss regret. Which I have, in spades, of late.
I don’t regret something I bought, which is called buyer’s remorse. I regret something I didn’t buy, and I don’t know what that’s called.
Cheapskate’s remorse?
Or just plain dumb?
I didn’t buy the thing in question because it was expensive and I thought I could do without it, but after doing without it for ten years, I find myself full of regret. I made a mistake. I wish I’d bought one. I yearn for one. I even fantasize about one.
Odd.
I used to lust after men, or jewelry. Thoughts of either could keep me up all night. Men bearing jewelry would be ideal. Men wearing jewelry would not.
But neither of those things is the object of my fantasy, anymore. There’s only one thing I don’t have that would really turn me on.
Nowadays, my idea of a sex toy is a snowblower.
Oh baby.
I want it so bad, it’s good.
But at this point, I’m not sure I can bring myself to buy one. Why?
Regret.
It all started when I was watching the TV news, during the last storm. I love snow coverage, and as soon as there’s flurries in the forecast, I switch on the TV. I wait for the anchorman to stand in the middle of the flakes, like a doll in a snowglobe. Or for him to plunge a yardstick into the drift, like a doctor with a thermometer. Or for the Doppler to creep across the map, inching ominously toward us.
Doppler doesn’t mess around.
It’s radar.
But then the storm comes and goes, and the next day on TV, everybody groans and whines as they shovel out their sidewalks, cars, and driveways. There’s only one happy person.
The guy with the snowblower.
He’s not bent over at all. His hands aren’t cramped, and his nose doesn’t leak.
All he has to do is walk around, with his snowblower doing all the work, parting the drifts like a motorboat in Margate Bay, making a frothy wake.
Oh, yes.
I want one bad.
And I regret that I don’t have one, at the same time that I’m not sure whether I should buy one.
I’ve done without a snowblower for a decade, and I worry that, if I get one now, I’ll get the worst of both worlds. If I’d bought it a long time ago, I could’ve been blowing snow all this time and gotten one cheaper. Because I didn’t, I’ll have done without for a decade, and I’ll be buying one when it cost more.
It’s two for one, mistake-wise.
Regret, regret, regret.
But I kept thinking about getting one, so I went online and studied the websites to make a decision, which is easier said than done. First problem, there’s two types of machines, one called a snowblower and one called a snowthrower.
Who knew?
I read the websites, but I couldn’t figure out the difference between a snowblower and a snowthrower. I have never blown or thrown snow. I have only shoveled it, scraped it, swept it, and cursed it. I’ve gotten excellent at cursing it, and done correctly, it won’t sprain your back.
Only your middle finger.
I bet you curse snow, too. It rarely responds. I suspect its feelings are hurt. It’s used to being wished for, around Christmastime, then oohed and aahed at, even photographed. It remembers when we loved it and called it our winter wonderland.
Then regret sets in, and we regret even the snow.
What happened to those beautiful snowflakes, each one unique?
Who cares?
Die, die, die. Get blown and thrown.
Go away.
The weatherman came on the TV and said there was another storm coming, so I chose the snowblower page and found a grid that let me Shop by Brand, Shop By Type, and Shop By Engine. Then I spotted a category that made it easy:
Shop by In Stock.
Ideal for girls like me.
Who put off buying a snowblower for ten years, and then couldn’t take it anymore and drove to the store, saying:
Gimme what you got.
Sell it to me and stick it in my car.
I don’t care if it blows, throws, or packs the snow into a cone and squirts it with cherry juice.
I want it gone.
And finally, no regrets.
© Lisa Scottoline