Judith Viorst: The Truth

The truth is
If I had it all to do over
I still wouldn't study Swahili,
Learn to fly a plane,
Or take 92 lovers,
Some of them simultaneously.

The truth is
If I lived my life again
I still wouldn't leap before looking,
I still wouldn't count my chickens before they were hatched,
And I'd still, just in case I was hit by a car and had to be
rushed to the hospital and examined,
Wear clean underwear.

The truth is
If I got a second chance
I still wouldn't know a forward pass from a backward one,
A self-effacing wine from a presumptuous one,
Or a man who, if I let him pick me up, would be rich, sincere,
and of the same religious persuasion
From a man who, if I let him pick him up, would wind up being
a homicidal rapist.

The truth is
That I'll always want to be
Pure enough to hate white bread,
Deep enough to admire Patagonian folk art,
Thin enough to go swimming in the nude,
Mature enough to outgrow Erich Fromm,
Nice enough to be nice to my Uncle Bernie,
And secure enough to not need getting married.

But the truth is
That the next time around,
I still wouldn't.