I think it’s a bullshit mantra of the narcissistic hustle culture. Rock star-wannabe entrepreneurs, tech bros, influencers, and “sell me this pen” dickheads. Justification for living an outlandish life.
Because if you have no regrets, that means a) you’ve never tried something that didn’t work, b) you’ve never lost control of your emotions, or c) you’re a self-centered bastard.
I certainly have some, and they generally fall into two categories: regrets of omission and roads not taken (the what-ifs) or regrets of things I have said or done.
This next phase of storytelling will focus on regrets. Not so much the what-if regrets. What’s the point of that? Any road not taken materially deviates from the road I did take, and I focus daily on gratitude for where I am and who I am with.
But I sure have done some stuff I regret.
The thing about regrets, though, is that each one is a lesson. A lesson in how to improve. A lesson in self-control. A lesson in being human.
I now had an opportunity, but it would require going out of character.
I would have to open my mouth and talk to the stranger next to me.
But here’s another thing about me — I hate waiting. And this guy, who walked in at the same moment I did, didn’t wait at all. I summoned the courage.
“How did you know that blue shirt was the right guy and get waited on so quickly?”
“I didn’t. But look around. What do you see?”
I just blinked. I had nothing.
“Every single person in this store has their face buried in their device. Even the people talking to a blue shirt. They’re all the same. Nameless and faceless.”
All you gotta do to get waited on is stand out just a little. So I walk in with my head up, immediately make eye contact, and smile at the first blue shirt I see inside the door. Without breaking eye contact, I walk right around the cloud of people milling about. If they aren’t the right person, they tell me who to see, and then I repeat that process.”
I asked, “But don’t you feel bad about skipping the line?”
“What line?
The Apple Store doesn’t have a line. On purpose. Those people are just standing there because they don’t know what to do. They don’t know how to stand out. So they fade into the background.”
Huh.
Sometimes it pays to keep your head up and your mind open.
I’ve spent most of my life trying to not stand out.
Fit in. Fade into the back. Stay comfortable. Don’t speak up. Wait my turn.
Maximize my sameness.
“I was just overwhelmed by how invisible he was. Just his shear mediocrity was hard to deny. It was so attractive.”
That makes sense, right?
Which brings me to the Apple Store, or as like I call it — The Introvert’s Torture Chamber. No customer service desk. No discernable line. No signs. Just a sea of co-mingled blue-shirted workers and customers running around doing extroverted things.
Torture for anyone looking to maximize their sameness.
Once, however, I found an unlikley guide that has forever changed my Apple Store experience and taught me a life lesson in how and when to stand out.
Needing to replace my laptop keyboard, I approached the door at the Philly Apple Store simultaneously with another guy. I held it for him, followed him in, and walked into the nightmare.
Inside the door, a haphazard cloud of 10 or 12 customers milled about in front of a group of three blue-shirts.
What’s my next move? I guess I’ll just stand here.
But I watched with amazement as this guy I held the door for found the correct blue-shirt guy, checked in, and walked directly over to a table to wait for help within 60 seconds. Ten minutes later, after waiting my turn, I found myself standing next to him at our appointed table.
The other time I was compelled to overcome my fear of heights was in front of a bunch of teenagers. Luckily, I got a push.
We spend the Sunday of workcamp week on team-building exercises. If you’ve ever been to summer camp or a corporate retreat, you’re probably familiar with many of these activities — low-ropes stuff such as alligator crossing and the spider web.
But sometimes, we did high-ropes courses.
High-ropes courses are teamwork plus personal battles. And for me, or anyone with a fear of heights, a big-time personal battle. Fun for all on the two-line cable crossings, unstable bridges, and the suspended cargo net. If you freeze up, or can’t participate, everyone knows your shame.
At this particular course, you end your time in the tree tops with a zipline trip down the hill. Fun!
I traverse the course with sweaty palms and weak knees, determined not to let these bouncy and bubbly teens see me struggling. I don’t look down. I never look down.
I make it to the zipline platform. Phew, I’ve done it. They won’t know.
I hook in with some help from a worker and freeze. Like on the 10 meter platform, I can’t make myself jump off. I have no idea why my brain let me make it through the rest of the course but froze up here at the end. Maybe it’s because there’s nothing under me. Maybe I don’t trust that itty-bitty cable. Regardless, I can’t do it.
So I come up with a solution. I turn my head to the zipline-hooker-upper guy behind me and say, “Push me,” fully expecting to have to explain my novel idea.
I start to formulate my explanation, but to my surprise, he just smiles and says, “Sure thing.” This was not his first rodeo.
And he pushes me.
A thousand feet of exhilaration later, with my feet firmly planted on the ground, I feel the butterflies, but this time of joy.
Twice in my life, I “overcame” a fear of heights with help from others. And by help, I mean physical help. A push, to be exact.
During a summer semester at Penn State, my friends and I liked to go to the pool on campus. The pool had a diving area complete with a 10-meter platform.
“Sure, let’s do it!”
Four of us climbed the ladder and waited at the platform’s back end. I watched two friends saunter out to the edge, peer down and jump off, piercing the water feet first.
My turn. I walked out just like my buddies, looked down, and froze. Over 30 feet in the air, plus the depth of the pool. It may as well have been a thousand feet.
I stood there for what seemed like and hour and could not will myself to jump, no matter how hard I tried. My lizard brain was locked up. Now my buddy behind me sees what’s happened and starts hazing me. So do my friends below. They’re on me hard.
I can’t do it, so I turn around and walk back to climb down the ladder, fully prepared for the relentless hazing that would fill the remainder of the day. It’s gonna suck, but it’s the only way.
But my friend behind me is having none of this. He blocks my way to the ladder, turns me around, and gives me shove.
Somehow that worked. With the momentum from the shove, I started running, stared straight ahead, and just ran off the end. Next thing I know, I’m swimming to the edge of the pool.
Yes, it was 100% peer pressure, but without that shove, I’d never be able to say I did it, and I’m glad I did. How many thousands of people have jumped off that platform and not died? All of them.
I spent three years running around center city Philly at lunchtime. Starting at the gym at 15th and Arch, I could explore the Rocky movie sites, historic district, Penn’s landing, University City, the sports complex (watched the Eagles a bit during training camp), boathouse row, and even had a few scary moments. It was awesome.
But there was no hill. If you’re training for an event, and I often was, you need some hill work.
I found the solution while running along Penn’s Landing at the Delaware river — the bridge! The Ben Franklin Bridge is a mile-long, majestic, arching hill over the river. Perfect.
So on my next run, I set out for the bridge, feeling a bit smug with my brilliant idea.
Approaching as a pedestrian is tricky because it hosts seven Vine St Expressway (I676) lanes, commuter rail from Jersey to the city, and the pedestrian walkway. There’s a lot going on, but you can find the walkway entrance on the south side, just past Franklin Square and behind the National Constitution Center.
The pedestrian walkway sits about 20 feet over the rail, above, and outside the roadway. When on it, you can’t see the road or rails unless you lean over the railing. As I crossed the first time, I approached the crest of the hill and mindlessly peeked over the way-too-short outside railing.
High (135 ft) — check .
See straight down — check.
Mistrust the safety equipment — check.
Instantly my knees turned to jelly, and my brain locked up. I froze, put my arms out like I was walking a tightrope, tip-toed my way to the inside girder, and hugged a light pole like a long-lost relative.
What the hell was that? But I couldn’t help it.
I can only imagine what this looked like to the others on the walkway. Not surprisingly, a few passers-by gave me plenty space on the way by.
Now what?
I composed myself, turned back toward the entrance, and shuffled the almost half-mile back off the bridge with my hand on the inside girder. Head straight. Eyes forward. Hug the railing.
I was flustered and more than a little embarrassed but also determined. I wasn’t going to let it beat me.
So over the next weeks and months, I kept trying it. Eventually, I made it over. It wasn’t pretty — head straight, eyes forward, hug the inside railing. But I did it.
Over time and repetition, I got to the point where I could run along the outside and even take some quick peeks over the side. My knees still weakened, but the more I did it, the more I could control my mind. More than once, I did hill repeats.
The fear hasn’t left me, but I’ve learned how to cope and operate in the face of it. Here’s some proof of progress.
Back Towards Philly From JerseyI did itHigh, Straight down, Mistrust the safety equipment
Lighthouses — cool structures, romanticized nostalgia, and a wealth of symbolism.
Some of my earliest and fondest memories from childhood are of the Hatteras lighthouse on the outer banks of North Carolina.
And over the years, I’ve climbed many in different parts of the country with little issue, so I had no idea that the one on Tybee Island, Georgia, would turn me into a whimpering toddler.
I’m lucky in that I don’t have a universal fear of all heights. I don’t actually have clinical acrophobia, but I’m easily reduced to a bowl full of jelly when just a few ingredients exist.
High enough that I risk injury. So probably over 15 feet.
I gotta be able to see straight down.
I don’t trust the safety equipment (railing, wall, cable, etc).
If you combine those things, my knees weaken, and my mind locks up. The lizard brain takes over.
Which brings us to the top of the Tybee Island lighthouse. As I emerge from the lantern room onto the catwalk, all three ingredients combine to rip any vestige of self-control away from me.
It’s a lighthouse, so of course, I knew it was high, and I’d be able to see straight down. I’ve done it many times. But I had no idea the catwalk railing would come up only to the middle of my thighs! Usually, the catwalk railing is at least chest high and often reaches over my head.
I’ve lost all trust in the safety equipment.
Who’s that minuscule railing gonna save? Uh, nobody over 3 feet in height. What if you get startled, someone bumps into you, or you lean over just a bit too much while waving to the smart people below? Surely the remains of people waving to their much smarter family and friends litter the ground around the bottom of this lighthouse.
My lizard brain was having none of it. It locks up, and now I physically can’t move. I literally can’t move.
Not only can’t I move, but now I find myself hugging the lantern room from the outside. Not hugging in the sense of “staying close to.” No. Hugging, hugging. Like it’s a giant teddy bear — arms outstretched, belly and cheek stuck to it.
And I’m not the only one on this catwalk. Heck no. I got at least ten other people around to witness this public display of terror. Lucky me.
At first, the others are mildly curious, like maybe I’m playing some kind of game. If only. But after a few minutes, they all know. My shame is public. How could it not be? I’m hugging the giant lighthouse 140 feet off the ground, and I can’t move.
Well, here’s how it ends. After my friends and family take a few pictures of me for nostalgia purposes, my wife saves my ass. She tenderly takes my hand, looks me in the eyes, and says, “OK, don’t look anywhere else but at me. I’ve got you.”
And she leads me around the catwalk to the lantern room door and into safety. Finally, I can move again on my own.
November 18, 2011 at the Mutianyu section of the Great Wall about an hour north of Beijing.
How was I supposed to know that to stand on that wall required a windy traverse over what certainly was a bottomless chasm on an old rusty ski lift?
That part was not in the brochure.
But there I was with my coworker and friend George, somehow standing on the platform of that ski lift, waiting for the 1970s-era 2-seat, open-air death trap to come around the giant cog and grab my ass.
I almost didn’t do it. Truly. I was sweating, shaking, and probably white as a ghost because I knew what would come after dropping the bar over my head.
But I sat my butt in that chair, and now I was trapped.
We took off, rose over the initial crest, and the ground dropped away. I froze. Not from the early winter chill in the air but from terror. The wind picked up. All I could see was that rusty cable stretching as we bounced along 8 billion feet above the earth.
How much more could it withstand?
I knew with all of my being that the cable on the lift was about to snap. I believed it with all of my heart. The only thing that kept me from outright weeping was my pride in front of George.
He, though, was apparently unphased — turning around, taking pictures, leaning over the bar, and making that itty-bitty seat bounce even more. So I closed my eyes, sat ramrod still, and let George do all the talking. Thank God he was talking. I couldn’t have choked out anything comprehensive above a grunt.
Miraculously, somewhere between 5 minutes and 3 hours later, I found myself standing on that wall. What a payoff that was.
And I would do it again in a heartbeat, even knowing the terror that I’d hoist upon myself again. The Great Wall is truly one of the great wonders on this planet. I’ve seen the pictures, you’ve seen the pictures, but the only way to appreciate its majesty is to stand on it with your own two feet.
If I’d succumbed to the fear, like I almost did right before the chair lift swung around that giant cog, I’d be kicking myself forever.
Irrational fears — spiders, snakes, needles, public speaking, the dentist, whatever. Various estimates put the number of people in the US with phobias from 20% to 25%.
Mine is heights, and I share acrophobia with about 5% of the population. That means 95% of you are crazy and should think about therapy.
Because our phobia is better than yours. Better in the sense that it’s real. Real in the sense that we will die if we fall from something high. It’s not some made-up fear like nomophobia or xanthophobia.
I feel good and validated about my acrophobia. But still, even though I’m afraid of something real, unlike y’all with ablutophobia, I recognize that I must not let it get the best of me. Life demands it.
So I test myself. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes unintentionally. I always pass with flying colors (if flying colors means freezing, running the other way, crying, or acting like a toddler).
What follows over the next few days are stories about those tests.
Oh, and if globophobia or optophobia has got you stuck in your house in the dark, you should dig in here. The nuggets of wisdom will be coming fast and furious.
If my ridiculous fails and antics can’t at least help someone feel less alone, then what am I doing here?
I’m alone in the dungeon, but I make it to the locker room door.
Shit! It’s closed and locked. My key’s down by the pool. This door is always locked. We’re in center city. Stuff happens.
Just as I’m about to wheel around and head back to the pool because now I’m committed to the locker room, the door opens and hits me. A guy runs out and says, “Get out, man!” And he’s off.
I grab the door before it closes. At my locker, I pause and look around for just a second or two. It’s empty, of course, but at no point have I smelled or seen smoke. That’s still true. The fire, if there is one, may prevent me from escaping, but here in this locker room, my life is not in immediate danger.
I can’t escape the vision of myself out on the busy city street in my jammers in ball-scratching cold weather. What would I look like? What would people think?
So I get dressed. Then I grab my bag and take off, not knowing if an escape route even exists anymore. If not, at least I’ll die with my clothes on.
Up the stairs, around the corner, through the big double doors, and out onto the sidewalk. With my clothes on.
Thank God. I mill about with the rest of the crowd and learn that this wasn’t a drill, but neither is the building on fire. A false alarm.
